


Doppelganger

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-25
Updated: 2009-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-13 03:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15355446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: A serial killer has come to Cascade, and Blair is really wishing he'd paid more attention to his shamanic studies.





	Doppelganger

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Elaine, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Artifact Storage Room 3](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Artifact_Storage_Room_3) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Artifact Storage Room 3’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/artifactstorageroom3/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This was won in the 2007 Moonridge auction by the terrific ponders_life on LJ. She asked for a story set in the Every Purpose Under Heaven universe, in which Blair either a) struggles to balance the demands of being a shaman and a cop, both on the job and in his relationship with Jim, b) helps Jim to deal with the spiritual aspect of being a Sentinel by virtue of being a shaman, or c) uses his shamanic powers to catch a criminal, solve a crime, or save someone's (Jim's?) life. Bonus points for bringing in a minor canon character.
> 
> My heartfelt thanks to ponders_life for her support, her patience in waiting for this story, and her support of Moonridge and the animals!
> 
> I had a lot of help on this story. Major thanks go to earth2skye, anxiety_junkie, and Elaine for the very helpful beta. Also thanks to cross_stitchery, mab_browne, and gillyp for comments on one of the scenes over on LJ. All remaining mistakes and missteps are mine. And thanks to anxiety_junkie for the title suggestion!
> 
> This is set about 18 months after TSbyBS. Blair is a cop, and he and Jim have been lovers for a few months. I don't think you need to have read Every Purpose Under Heaven to follow this story, but if you do want to read it, it's here:  
> http://asr3.slashzone.org/archive/viewstory.php?sid=433

“Strangled with utility rope?”

“Yeah.”

“And you can smell...?”

“Semen. Yeah.”

_Crap_. Blair slid his fingers underneath his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. The picture matched; Tommy Calhoun, eleven-and-a-half years old, black-haired and brown-eyed, dressed in jeans and a striped polo shirt. Third victim in four weeks. It was official; Cascade had a serial killer. And one who preyed on children, no less. 

He watched Jim draw the sheet back over the small, still corpse. Three victims, all younger than twelve; all of whom had been sexually assaulted, then strangled and dumped in vacant lots around the city. Three victims, abducted from three different schools, with apparently nothing in common except the cause of death. 

It was one of Cascade’s rare sunny days. Blair tipped his head back, closing his eyes and letting the rays warm his face, and sighed. It didn’t seem right that such a thing could happen on such a day. 

He could feel Jim’s gaze on him, concerned, from where Jim was still crouched next to the body. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Jim said. “Forensics can go over the scene.”

“No,” Blair snapped curtly, “Forensics isn’t going to find all the things that you can find. And to do that, you need me.” He squeezed Jim’s shoulder in mute apology for his tone and took a deep breath. “Besides, you’re the best chance we have of catching this guy, and believe me, Jim, I want to catch this guy.”

“I do, too, Chief,” Jim said, rising. “Let’s do it, then.”

Blair slid his hand down to its usual spot on Jim’s back and he started talking in a low voice, anchoring Jim as they systematically scoured the scene, starting from the immediate area around the body and working outwards in a tight spiral. Guiding Jim was so natural now, so smooth, that it was practically routine, and that freed up a portion of his brain to do some processing of its own.

It had been a little less than 18 months since he’d joined the force and become Jim’s permanent partner, and in that time, Jim had slowly gotten better at letting Blair get exposed to the uglier parts of police work. He’d always tried so hard to shield Blair from that when he was an observer. It had taken a few firm conversations to make Jim understand that this was Blair’s career now, and he didn’t want to be treated any differently than any other cop, especially by Jim. Others would look to Jim as an example, Blair had explained, and if Jim treated him with kid gloves, then he’d never gain any respect in the precinct. 

Jim had nodded, and agreed to try, and had actually been doing pretty well... until they’d become lovers a few months ago. Since then, Jim had backslid a little, and his protective streak was coming to the fore more often. Like today.

Blair’s musings were interrupted when Jim came to an abrupt halt, his nostrils flaring. 

“What is it?” Blair asked.

“A scent... it’s very faint... something dry, musty....” Jim paused, then shook his head sharply. “It’s gone now, I lost it.” 

Blair patted his back gently. “Let’s keep going. Maybe you’ll pick it up again.”

But they finished covering the lot without finding the scent again. Jim exhaled irritably, then headed back to where where the body lay, his fingers rubbing over his forehead. “I’ll go over it one more time.”

Blair started to follow him, then stopped, puzzled. He didn’t know if it was an optical illusion, but there was an area of sunlight over to the left of the body that looked different; brighter, denser somehow. He glanced up at the sky, but there were no clouds, nothing that could be refracting the light in this unusual manner.

“Hang on a sec,” he called back to Jim, as he hurried over to check it out. 

As soon as he stepped into the light, a deep warmth coated all his limbs like honey. A shiver rippled through him and he felt disoriented for a moment, off balance, as if the ground were shifting under his feet. 

He turned, hand raised, to warn Jim – whatever the hell was going on here, there was no telling how it would affect Sentinel senses – and stopped, mouth gaping open in astonishment. 

Jim was completely still, his head turned towards Blair, his right foot slightly raised. He wasn’t blinking, and wasn’t having trouble balancing. He didn’t even look like he was breathing. He was frozen between one step and the next, like a fly in amber. 

Fear tightened Blair’s stomach, prickled along the back of his neck. What the fuck was going on?

“Hey, mister,” a small voice piped up behind him.

He spun around, nearly tripping over his own feet when he saw the young boy standing behind him. A young boy in jeans and a striped polo shirt, with black hair and round brown eyes. 

“Mister, can you help me?” the kid asked. “I think I’m lost.”

His heart lurched and he did a double-take, looking over to where the body lay, then back to the kid. “Tommy?” he gasped. “Tommy Calhoun?”

“That’s right,” the kid said, his face splitting in a bright smile. “Can you help me?”

Blair’s throat grew dry. He’d been afraid of something like this happening ever since Incacha had passed the way of the shaman on to him. “Help you? W-what makes you think I can help you?”

His stomach churned with apprehension. It wasn’t that he hadn’t taken Incacha seriously that day in the loft. It was pretty hard _not_ to take someone seriously when they were leaving bloody fingerprints on your arm. But he’d been so focused on helping Jim find the Chopec and bring Incacha and Janet’s killer to justice that he hadn’t really stopped to think about what the practical job duties of a shaman would be.

“You’re a cop, aren’t you? I saw the badge,” Tommy replied, motioning towards the gold shield Blair was wearing on a chain around his neck. “My mother always told me if I was lost I should find a policeman and he’d help me get back home.”

Plastering a smile on his face to hide his uncertainty, Blair squatted down until he was eye level with the boy. “That’s very good advice your mother gave you. But, first, let me ask you something, Tommy. How’d you get here?”

The boy looked confused, his brows drawing together. “I don’t know,” he said, anxiety giving his voice an edge. “I... I was at school, and then... and then... I... I don’t know what happened... I was here....” He trailed off, looking at Blair, the brown eyes filling with tears.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Blair soothed, reaching out and rubbing his arm gently. “What’s the last thing you remember when you were at school?”

Tommy wiped his nose along his sleeve. “The bell rang and I was getting my bike when one of the teachers came up to me. I don’t know his name. He teaches the tenth graders sometimes. He always watches us at recess, when he’s around.”

Blair frowned. They’d checked out all the teachers at the other two schools; none of those leads had panned out. “One of the teachers?”

“He’s a teacher only sometimes,” Tommy replied. “He’d been gone for a while. But today he came up to me, said he had something to ask me. Then a bee stung me, on the back of the neck, and I felt sleepy. Then I woke up here. I wandered around for a while, and then I saw you.” Tears filled his eyes again, although he was clearly struggling to not let them fall. “Can I go home now? It’s all foggy here, and I don’t like it. I want to go home.”

“Foggy?”

“Yeah, I... I was trying to find a phone, so I could call my parents, but it’s all white and I couldn’t see anything. Then I saw you.”

“You can’t see anything else? No buildings, no other people?” Blair asked.

“N-no,” Tommy said, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice. “Why? Should I be able to?”

Blair squeezed the kid’s shoulder gently, relieved that he was at least spared the sight of his own body lying on the ground. “No, no,” he lied smoothly. “You’re right, it’s pretty foggy; pretty hard to see anything. I just thought maybe you’d seen my partner, Jim. He’s around here somewhere.”

Tommy shook his head, sniffling.

“Tell me one more thing, Tommy,” Blair asked gently. “The teacher that came up to you at school, what’s he look like?”

Shrugging one shoulder, the boy replied, “I dunno. He’s got brown hair, a big mustache, wears glasses. The kids are always making fun of him because he forgets and puts his chalk in his pockets instead of back on the board. He’s always got white smudges on his pants.”

Chalk. Maybe that was the faint scent Jim had caught.

Sighing, Blair rose, resting his hand gently on top of the boy’s head. “Thanks, Tommy.” Now he just had to figure out how to help the kid. 

Sure, he’d had an initiation of sorts when they’d brought Incacha’s body back to Peru. He’d been introduced to his responsibilities and his spiritual ancestors, with the help of some mind-altering substances. But that didn’t mean he knew what he was doing.

After they’d returned, he’d checked a few books out of the Rainier library and gone through them, when time allowed between cases and classes and his research, but they’d mostly been anthropological works. Lots about the role of the shaman in the daily life of the non-industrialized tribe, very little that was helpful or practical for the young urban shaman who had been suddenly and unexpectedly thrust into the role. 

Then Alex had come to town. 

She had been a warning, he’d thought afterwards. A sign, neon-bright and flashing: _Get your shit together, Sandburg. This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t had your head up your ass_. And, of course, there was the death. His death. In pretty much every text he’d read, a ritual involving death and rebirth – figurative, mostly, but sometimes very nearly literal – was a crucial step on the path to becoming a functioning shaman. So he’d breathed a sigh of relief that – thanks to Jim – he’d managed to muddle successfully through _that_ with very little preparation, and promised himself he’d apply himself more assiduously to his studies.

But then that thing with Ventriss had blown up at the U, and afterward he’d been trying, really hard, to be at Rainier more, stung by Edwards’ charge of absenteeism. And he’d made a serious push for the finish line with his diss. It had terrified him to think about what would happen next, though, and he’d lain awake nights, his brain running in circles, trying to find a way to wrap things up and still have a place in Jim’s life. 

He smiled ruefully to himself. Well, he’d found a way – or, rather, it had found him, thanks to Naomi. And things had looked bad for a while, worse than they ever had before. But at the end of it all, he’d accomplished his goal. His education at Rainier was wrapped up for good. And he was still a part of Jim’s life... a big part, now. Jim’s partner, official and permanent. 

With going to the academy and being a rookie and all the other things involved in making that change, learning to be a shaman had again slipped to the back burner for him. And so now he found himself here, in what his readings had told him was clearly a shamanic role – to help the newly deceased successfully navigate the spirit world – with absolutely no idea what to do. 

Ruffling the boy’s hair gently, he took a deep breath and steeled himself. Maybe if he just came clean about his ignorance... maybe the kid had an idea what to do.... “Listen, Tommy,” he started. 

The skin on the back of his neck pimpled, as if a cool breeze had blown across it. But the sensation wasn’t really about temperature. It was more like a feeling of absence at his back, something he was sensing on almost a tactile level. His chest felt empty, hollow, and there was a slight tugging from behind him, a nagging, subliminal pull.

He turned slowly towards the pull, first checking Jim out to make sure he was okay. His partner hadn’t moved a hair, his face still turned towards Blair, his expression still fixed. 

Just beyond Jim there was an area of bright light, and when Blair saw it he knew instinctively that it was the source of the sensations he had felt. Although light was all he could see, his body was telling him that this was an opening, a doorway. And, just like that, he knew what he had to do.

“Tommy,” he said gently, moving his hand to the boy’s back and turning him slightly, “do you see that doorway over there?”

“Yeah,” Tommy whispered, wonder audible in his voice. “Is that the way home?”

“Yes,” Blair said confidently. “Go through that doorway, and you’ll be home.”

Tommy’s eyes met his, awareness growing in their brown depths. “Will my parents be there?” he asked, a sudden quiver in his voice.

Blair crouched down again, cupping the boy’s shoulders gently and meeting his gaze directly with his own. “No. But there’ll be someone there to welcome you, I promise.” He knew this, knew it with utter and complete certainty, knew it the way he knew that he was short, or that he loved Jim.

The boy glanced over at the door with a dubious frown. “Do I have to? I don’t want to... maybe I should try to find my parents again.”

“Tommy.” Blair kept his voice light and firm, putting all the confidence and warmth into it that he could muster. “You won’t find your parents here, no matter how hard you look. You’ll just be lost. The only way out is through there.”

Moisture gathered in the corners of Tommy’s eyes and his bottom lip quivered. “I’m dead, aren’t I?” he asked, his gaze still fixed on the light.

“Yeah,” Blair sighed, his throat tight, “but it’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay if you just go through the door.”

“Promise?” 

“I promise.”

Tommy sniffled, and dragged his sleeve across his nose. “Okay,” he said. 

Blair watched him walk unsteadily towards the light. He paused when he reached it, then turned his head and smiled at Blair. “You’re right,” he said, his voice full of delight. Then he stepped forward into the doorway. 

It was as if a choir had taken up residence in Blair’s heart. He heard a sound like a thousand voices singing one pure, high note, and he was swamped by a wave of joy and completion so powerful he was rocked back on his heels. Tears started from his eyes and he gasped, trying to catch his breath. He wanted nothing more than to savor this moment for the rest of his life.

A shadow swept across the light, dimming it, and the ecstatic noise resonating through him cut off abruptly, leaving him feeling bereft and empty. And then he heard laughter, high-pitched, with a faintly derisive note. 

“Tommy?” he asked, “is that you?”

There was no reply. Icy fingers walked down his spine, raising goosebumps on his arms and legs. His stomach twisted with nausea, and he staggered forward, falling to his knees. 

“Blair! What the hell?—” All of a sudden Jim was at his side, helping him up. “Are you okay?”

The world spun as he rose to his feet and he leaned into Jim’s support. “Yeah,” he gasped, “just... just a little dizzy....”

“What happened to you? I was heading back to the body; I turned around to see where you were and you were on the ground.”

“You didn’t....” Blair broke off and looked around. There was no sign of the odd golden light he had noticed earlier, and no door. And no Tommy, either. Just the still form lying on the ground. He shivered and felt cold sweat break out across his forehead. 

“Babe?” Jim’s voice was edged with concern. “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Blair replied, patting Jim’s hand where it clutched his arm. “I’m okay. You... you’re okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Jim cupped his face, stroking his thumb lightly over Blair’s cheek. “You feel clammy,” he said. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

“No,” he replied. He was oddly reluctant to tell Jim about the vision, but couldn’t say why. A feeling of dread swept over him. _You have to tell him_ , he told himself firmly. _You know what happens when you don’t communicate, especially about the Sentinel stuff_. And he had no doubt that what had just happened was related. It was because of Jim’s Sentinel senses that Incacha had passed the way on to him. 

“I had a vision,” he said, making himself look at Jim directly. “Or I went into the spirit world. Or something. I’m not exactly sure. But I saw....” He trailed off, glancing over at the body on the ground. Nausea churned in his stomach again and he swallowed. 

“Blair? Did you see something related to the killings?”

Gritting his teeth, Blair forced himself to continue. “Yes. I saw Tommy Calhoun.”

“Jesus Christ.” And before he knew what was happening, Jim had an arm around his shoulders and was hustling him towards the truck. “I’m taking you home. You’re not okay. Something’s not right.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Blair dug his heels in and resisted. “He gave me some information about the killer.”

“He knew who it was?” 

“No, but he knew it was a teacher.”

Jim frowned at him. “We checked out the teaching staff.”

“Not the subs, man. Tommy said it was a teacher who’s only there some of the time. He didn’t know his name, but he said the guy usually teaches tenth grade. I thought that maybe that scent you caught earlier, maybe that was chalk. Tommy said the guy always has it in his pockets.” He looked up at Jim earnestly. “Do you still smell it?”

Jim’s nostrils flared, and then he recoiled, putting his hand up to pinch his nose closed. “No,” he complained, “all I smell now is bird shit.”

The high, mocking laughter rang in Blair’s ears again, and a chill swept over him like a blast of winter air, making goosebumps break out on his arms and legs once more. The ground tilted beneath his feet and his knees buckled. Pain lanced through his head; it felt like someone was driving a knife into his right eye. 

He reached out for Jim blindly, but his fingers closed on empty air.

Then Jim’s arms were around him, supporting him. “We’re going to the hospital. You need to see a doctor.”

“No, I’m fine,” Blair gasped, his head throbbing like a bass drum. “We need to go back to the station. We need to follow this up.” His stomach did a major flip-flop and he gritted his teeth, praying he wouldn’t throw up in front of Jim. 

“And we tell Simon what? That you got this idea in a vision? That the victim spoke to you from the spirit plane and described his killer?”

He glared at Jim. “We have probable cause to check out the substitutes at all three schools and you know it. We don’t need a warrant, we don’t need to tell Simon anything about the vision. We just need to go check it out. Now.”

Jim’s expression was grim, concern tightening his mouth and the corners of his eyes.

“Come on, Jim,” Blair urged. “I want this guy caught.”

Exhaling, Jim ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, but if you start feeling any worse....”

“I’ll let you know immediately,” Blair promised. 

***

“Okay, Rafe, thanks. I’ll get the APB out right away.”

Blair heard Jim hang up the phone, then rise from his desk and walk into Simon’s office. He felt a momentary pang of guilt that he wasn’t accompanying his partner, then pushed it away. He wasn’t really sure what would happen if he picked his head up off his desk right now, and he sure didn’t want to puke all over Simon’s shoes. 

He’d kept his promise to Jim; the headache hadn’t gotten any worse, but it hadn’t gotten any better, either. He thought maybe he was starting to get used to it. _I’d give it a ten, Dick_ , he thought, sarcastically, _it’s got a good beat and you can dance to it_.

Jim’s steps as he returned to their desks provided a kind of rhythmic counterpoint to the pounding in his head. There was a pause, and then he felt Jim’s hand on the back of his neck, warm and firm, rubbing gently. He sighed in relief. 

“There are five male teachers who have substituted at those three schools within the last six months,” Jim told him. “One of them is out of the country, and has been for the last week, according to the temp agency that places them.”

Blair grunted noncommittally. “We’re following up on that with the State Department, right?”

“Of course,” Jim replied evenly. “But based on the description you gave me, Harry Morrison is our perp. Rafe and Henri just went by his house; nobody’s home. We’re sending a patrol over to keep an eye out and putting an APB out on his car. In the meantime, we need to eliminate the others. Rafe and H are taking one, Megan and Joel the second....”

“And you and I have the third,” Blair sighed. “Because we can’t exactly tell Simon why it is we’re sure Morrison’s our man.”

Jim paused, his fingers stilling. “And because you could be mistaken, Chief,” he said softly. “You’re sick; you could have been hallucinating; maybe there was something toxic out there....”

Blair sat up, dislodging Jim’s hand from his neck. “If there was something toxic out there, or some kind of drug, it would have affected you, too.” He squinted against the sudden onslaught of light, feeling as if someone was driving needles into his eyes. “And I’m not sick, I’ve just got a migraine.” 

“Which have been associated with visual hallucinations.”

“Not like that. And I didn’t have the migraine until _after_ the vision.” He stood and pulled his coat from the back of his chair. “But it’s pointless to argue about it. I agree that we’ve got to do it; let’s just go and get it done.” Annoyed that Jim still didn’t seem to trust him, or his procedural knowledge, he shrugged his coat on and marched off to the elevators, leaving Jim to follow in his wake. 

As he’d predicted, the interview was a bust. Simon Blanchard had an alibi for two of the three murders. But the silver lining was that he had seen Harry Morrison at one of the schools, and had been bothered by the amount of time Morrison had spent watching the younger kids on the playground, so much so that he had said something about it to the school principal. 

“Well, at least we got some confirmation,” Jim said, as they headed back to the truck, the long rays of the setting sun lengthening their shadows on the asphalt.

“Yeah,” Blair said shortly. He didn’t feel inclined to make much conversation. For one thing, his headache was still going strong. It had taken all his energy just to pay attention during the interview, which, thankfully, Jim had led. And he was still a little pissed off at Jim for not having more faith in his vision. 

Jim made a left turn, heading away from the station, and Blair twisted in his seat, glaring at him. “Where are you going?” he asked. “We have to write this up.”

“No,” Jim said patiently, “ _you_ have to go home and get some rest. And don’t try to tell me your head’s not still bothering you; I can tell that it is.”

Blair crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the passenger side window.

“Sandburg, what the fuck crawled up your ass today?” Jim snapped. “Look, we’ve got a surveillance unit on the house, an APB out on the car, and Simon will call us if anything happens. What more do you want me to do?”

“I just don’t understand why, after all this time, you can’t trust me,” Blair said, his head throbbing painfully.

“This has nothing to do with my trusting you,” Jim said, incredulity in his voice.

“Of course it does,” Blair replied irritably, feeling the edges of his temper fray. “You don’t believe this vision I had; you don’t trust the information it gave us.”

“Sandburg, I never said—“

But Blair interrupted him, continuing on doggedly. “What’s more, you obviously don’t trust my understanding of the situation. I’ve been a cop for over a year, Jim, and I worked with you for nearly four years before that. I know how the drill works. I know we can’t just go waltzing into the DA’s office and demand Morrison be arrested on the basis of information I got in a vision. I get that. What I don’t understand is why you can’t trust me to get that.” His head was pounding, and a sudden wave of nausea rocked his stomach. 

Jim stared out the windshield, hands gripping the steering wheel, his jaw like iron. He didn’t reply.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence, Blair focusing on breathing in and out through his nose deeply, hoping to dispel the urge to throw up. 

Once they got back to the loft, Blair stripped off his coat and gun quickly, and made a beeline for the stairs. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said. Jim gave an affirmative grunt.

He turned the shower up as hot as he could stand, and got under the spray, bracing himself with one arm, feeling the water pound on his neck and shoulders, releasing the tension there. He stood there for a long time; when the water started to turn tepid, he soaped himself up quickly, giving his hair a cursory wash, and rinsed off. His headache was still present, but diminished, and the nausea was gone, he noted with relief.

When he pushed the shower curtain aside, he spotted the mug of tea sitting on the edge of the sink, with two Tylenol next to it. He gulped the pills down with some water, and sniffed at the tea. Chamomile-lemon; his favorite after a long day. He smiled slightly. Jim was always good at the tacit apologies. Pulling on the shorts and undershirt he slept in, he picked up the tea and went out into the living room, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. 

Jim was standing at the stove, ladling what smelled like chicken soup into two bowls. He looked up as Blair came out of the bathroom. “I thought you might prefer something simple and light for dinner,” he said.

“Sounds good,” Blair replied, seating himself at the kitchen table. “And thanks for the tea,” he added, raising the mug.

Nodding, Jim brought the bowls over. The meal was quiet; Jim’s attention seemed fixed on his dinner, and Blair ate slowly, not wanting to put too great a demand on his stomach. The soup tasted good, though, and between it and the pain pills, his headache had nearly gone away. He sipped the tea slowly, savoring the rasp of citrus on his tongue. 

“Blair,” Jim said softly. He looked up and met Blair’s eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just... you know I don’t like the spiritual side of this very much....”

“The spiritual side of this saved my life, Jim,” he replied evenly. 

“I _know_ ,” Jim said, tension audible in his voice. He exhaled heavily. “Look, there have been a lot of... changes... with us lately, and... it’s not that I have any problem with that, it’s just hard for me—”

Blair cut him off. “I know. We’ve had this conversation before.” Although it was early, all of a sudden he was exhausted, the events of the day catching up with him. “I’m too tired to do this again right now. I’m going to bed.” He drained the mug and took it and his soup bowl to the sink and rinsed them out. 

He’d thought that Jim might offer to come upstairs with him and give him a neckrub, but when he climbed the stairs Jim was still sitting at the kitchen table, his mouth drawn in a thin, straight line, staring out at the lights of Cascade. 

A chill gripped his heart as he turned the covers back. Maybe they couldn’t do this. Maybe it was too much to be lovers, partners, _and_ Sentinel and guide. Maybe one of those had to give. 

He lay down and pulled the covers up snugly around his ears. In spite of the unsettling ache in his chest, he dropped off to sleep quickly.

In the dream, Incacha was sitting next to him on the steps of the Temple, his expression solemn under the red paint. “The root of the shaman’s power is love,” he said to Blair.

“So I can’t help someone unless I love them?” Blair asked. “That’s gonna kind of narrow the field a little....”

Incacha gave him a look that, even with the cultural differences between them, Blair could clearly interpret as exasperation. “I do not mean the love you bear for Enqueri, or that which you feel for those in your tribe.” 

“Wait a minute,” Blair said, startled, “how do you know about me and Jim?”

Eyebrow arching, Incacha replied, “Even when I was alive, your bodies, your actions were shouting it to any who would see.” He shook his head, his expression serious. “You must learn to observe better if you are to be a shaman, young one.”

“Well, I... I mean, I knew how _I_ felt, but Jim... he’s... he’s hard to read, sometimes... and it’s not like our culture’s very keen on two men....” His words petered out under Incacha’s unwavering gaze. “Okay, okay, point taken,” he grumbled. “So... you were telling me about love?”

“Love for kin and tribe is just a small part of the shaman’s love. The shaman moves between the worlds, sees the unity of all things. All life is linked to other life, and all must be cherished, even the parts that are damaged or incomplete. The shaman’s love is love for the whole, for the mystery, for the web that connects all living beings. This is what the shaman draws on to help all those who need it.”

“But how? I... I don’t understand.”

Incacha made a loose fist, and blew gently into one end. When he unfolded his hand, there was a tiny pulsating point of light floating above his palm. It seemed to be singing, almost; Blair could sense a sound that swelled and diminished with the pulsing, although it seemed to him that he felt it more in the bones of his skull rather than heard it. 

“Watch,” Incacha said, and as Blair obeyed, the tiny point of light doubled, and then doubled again, and again; becoming two, then four, then sixteen. The sound was doubling as well, notes being added with every multiplication, some low, some higher, until it formed a massive chord that crescendoed and diminished in time with the pulsing. 

Blair rubbed at the area in back of his ears, wincing slightly. The sound was a little overwhelming. Incacha passed his free hand over the lights and they started moving, spreading out into a sphere, but connected together by thin streams of light. It looked like a tiny web of sparkling jewels.

And the sound had changed as well; the notes coming at different times, rather than all together in one chord. The pulsations were also out of sync; each light kept its own rhythm now and the effect was like a melody instead of a single chord, but an incredibly complex one.

“It’s beautiful,” Blair breathed, “but I still don’t get why you’re showing this to me, or what it has to do with being a shaman.”

“Watch,” Incacha said again. 

And as Blair watched, the sparkling net faded into a tiny globe, spinning slowly in Incacha’s hand. But the song remained.

“The shaman sees the web that connects us all.” Incacha’s voice was husky with awe.

The Temple was fading away, Incacha’s features growing transparent and vague. “Remember, young one - love is the key,” echoed in his ears, just as the dream evaporated.

Blair raised his head sluggishly. The bedroom was dim, lit only by the streetlights outside. It was still night, then. 

He rubbed a hand over his face. He’d dreamt of Incacha, he knew, but the details were fading away like smoke. All he could remember was something about Incacha having known about him and Jim. He turned his head to look at his partner. 

Jim was lying next to him, stretched out on his back, his breathing slow and even. Blair peered across him at the clock. The numbers glowed back at him in red: 2:17. Plenty of time to catch a few more winks before the alarm was scheduled to go off. He shifted, pulling the coverlet up and snuggling down into the warmth of the bed. 

But try as he might, he couldn’t fall back asleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the dream, wondering if Incacha really had been able to tell how he and Jim felt about each other, or if that was just something his dream mind had supplied. 

Thinking about that led him to think about the night he and Jim had first gotten together, a few months ago. It very nearly hadn’t happened; sometimes Blair wondered if, had things gone differently, they would ever have confessed their feelings to each other, or if they would have just gone on in blind denial forever. 

Fortunately for both of them, Blair’s brush with death turned out to be the last straw, the thing that had snapped Jim’s iron control. And although things hadn’t been completely smooth sailing after that – Jim, being Jim, had taken some extra convincing – that had been quite the night to remember.

His cock twitched at the thought and he grinned, reaching down to palm himself idly through his cotton boxers. It felt good and set up a gentle throb in his groin. That would be a pleasant way to tire both mind and body out. He turned his head and looked at Jim, sleeping soundly next to him. It was a whole lot more fun when you had a partner, though.

Rolling up on one side, he abandoned his half-stiff dick in favor of drawing his fingers lightly down Jim’s chest. He never got tired of looking at Jim, or touching him, the skin of his fingertips drinking in the sensations as hungrily as his eyes. 

He rubbed a thumb over Jim’s nipple, feeling himself harden as the skin crinkled, bringing the nub into sharp relief. Unable to stop himself, he bent his head and took the tiny button of flesh into his mouth, sucking on it gently.

Jim made a small, contented noise, and, as Blair raised his head, he could see a smile quirking one corner of Jim’s mouth, even though Jim’s eyes remained closed. Grinning, Blair went back to what he’d been doing, tugging a little harder now, worrying the sensitive bump carefully with his teeth. God, it was wonderful to have such a responsive lover.

Sighing, Jim turned onto his side, eyes still closed, and laced his fingers together at the back of Blair’s neck, pulling his face up and dislodging his mouth from his chest in the process. Blair made a whimper of protest that was quickly and effectively silenced as Jim kissed him, his mouth warm and soft with sleep.

The kiss was long and slow and sultry, and Blair wriggled closer, pressing his body the length of Jim’s, shivering as he felt Jim’s growing erection nudge his groin. The ache in his belly became a slow burn, and he slid his hand down the smooth, hard planes of Jim’s side and over his hip, pushing Jim’s boxers down along the way. Jim’s cock sprang free, flushed and rigid, curving delicately up towards his abdomen. Blair stroked him, lightly at first and then more firmly, relishing how the hot skin felt so smooth under his fingers, the way Jim’s dick fit so perfectly into his palm. Jim groaned and tightened his grip on Blair’s neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, easing his tongue into Blair’s mouth. 

Desire ignited into sudden need, and Blair scrabbled at his shorts, yanking them down and freeing his own cock, the head leaking pre-come. He slicked himself up with the fluid, then wrapped his hand around them both, rocking his hips and rubbing himself along Jim’s length. 

The intimate caress of their cocks, the competing textures of silk and iron, was intoxicating, dizzying, and he pulled his mouth away, gasping for air. Undaunted, Jim turned to his neck, biting and sucking on the tender skin there. He felt his balls tighten, bumping against Jim’s, and then in a rush he was coming, panting his release out into the cool morning air. 

A moment later, Jim pulsed under his hand, and he felt a second spurt of fluid. With a grunt, Jim rolled onto his back, pulling Blair with him. Blair rested his head in the hollow of Jim’s shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of Jim’s chest slow back to normal as he recovered. He knew he should get up and clean them both off, but he felt heavy and lethargic, sleep dragging at his mind and his limbs. _I’ll just close my eyes for a sec_ , he told himself. _Just for a sec, then I’ll go get a washcloth_...

When he woke next, he was alone, and the dawn light was streaming into the loft through the skylights. He lifted his head, noting muzzily that his boxers were still tangled around his ankles. A pale rectangle insinuated itself into his consciousness; fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand, he slipped them on and picked up the note Jim had left. 

“Going running,” it said. “Tried to wake you but you were out like a light. Be back soon. Love, J.”

Blair grinned to himself. Even middle-of-the-night sex couldn’t prevent Jim from rising with the sun. 

Laying the note down, he yawned and then pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, kicking off his boxers as he did so. He ran a hand through his hair and scratched his crotch meditatively, wrinkling his nose as his hand came into contact with last night’s leavings. He needed a shower.

He stood up and wobbled towards the stairs, limbs still heavy and slow with sleep. He wasn’t quite sure how he made it down and through the loft without falling or running into something, he felt so drowsy and out-of-it, but the next thing he knew, he was standing in the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror, and debating whether or not he needed to shave.

The needling pulse of the shower was like a tonic, however, and after about twenty minutes he bounced out, feeling bright and refreshed. He lathered up and shaved quickly, then wrapped a towel around his hips and threw another over his head, squeezing his hair to get as much of the water out as possible.

Towel still over his head, he left the bathroom and hurried into the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot that Jim had – thank God! – started before he’d left on his run. He was about to take a sip when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun, heart lurching, and nearly dropped his coffee mug at the sight in front of him.

The table was covered with a layer of feathers. Small curls of down spun gently, rising and falling in the air currents around the loft. And one of their pillows, now flat and empty, was folded over a chair back, rent by great long slashes.

Shocked, Blair stared in frank bewilderment, his mouth hanging open, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Who the hell had done this? And when? And _why_?

The lock turned and Jim came in, a dark V of perspiration dampening his sweatshirt. He smiled as he saw Blair, but his smile faded as he saw the remains of the pillow. “Sandburg, what the hell?...” he asked, motioning towards the carnage, his tone annoyed.

“I... I don’t know, Jim!” Blair insisted urgently. “I just... I came out of the bathroom and there it was....”

Jim’s frown deepened and he moved, as quickly as a cat, to where his holster hung from the coat rack. _Did you check the house?_ he mouthed silently at Blair, pulling his gun out.

A chill gripped his spine. He shook his head urgently at Jim and, shrugging the towel off his head, reached for his own weapon where it hung next to Jim’s.

Jim crept quietly across the loft, moving slowly, until he reached the bottom of the stairs. He motioned for Blair to check out his old bedroom, and started to climb the stairs, keeping his back against the wall, his gun held at the ready.

Blair moved around the end of the kitchen island and pressed himself against the wall of his old room. Carefully, he reached out and turned the knob, then pushed the door open with his foot. When nothing happened, he eased himself through the doorway.

His room looked unchanged. They’d talked about turning it into an office, but they hadn’t really gotten around to it yet. Blair’s spread was still on the bed, and some books and papers of his were on the desk, plus there were a couple of boxes of Jim’s stuff that needed to be taken down to the basement storage unit. Nothing looked disturbed.

He snuck across the room and checked the door that led outside to the fire escape. Bolted shut, from the inside. No way someone could have gotten in through there.

Somehow that didn’t serve to relieve his anxiety, but only heightened it. He slipped out of the room and turned left down the hallway, past the bathroom, to the door at the end, but that one was shut and locked as well. _If no one got in_ , he thought, _then it had to...._ He shook his head. _No, that’s just crazy. There’s got to be another explanation. Maybe Jim--_

Footsteps clattered down the stairs and across the floor, and as he turned, he saw Jim go into the kitchen and reach under the sink, pulling out a garbage bag. When he came into the main area, Jim was scooping up the feathers and stuffing them into the garbage bag with rough, jerky motions. Fluffy wisps were escaping his hands and spurting up into the air, then falling back down in lazy, looping spirals. “Uh... nothing upstairs, I take it?” Blair asked, trying to inject a light note into his voice and failing utterly.

Jim’s expression was grim; his eyes hooded, his mouth a thin line. “No sign that anyone has been up there,” he said. “Windows and doors all locked down tight; everything just as it was when I left.”

“Did you sense anything?”

“No.”

Blair watched him uneasily. “Maybe you... maybe you shouldn’t....”

“Shouldn’t what?” Jim asked. “Get rid of the evidence? It’s not like a crime’s been committed.” 

“Jim...” he started, then stopped. He didn’t know what to say.

Jim stilled and shot him a glare. “What I don’t understand is why you would do something like this. What’s the point?”

“I didn’t DO this!” he snapped, his voice rising. 

But even as the words came out of his mouth, he felt a shiver of apprehension down his back. Who else could have done it? There were no signs of forced entry, and Jim would have been able to sense if there had been someone else in the loft. And, to be honest, his memory of the morning was a little spotty. He recalled waking up, and then looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, but what had happened in between was a little fuzzy. 

Was it possible? Could he have?....

But why on earth would he have done something like that?

The phone rang, making him jump, startling him out of his thoughts. 

Jim dropped the garbage bag, strode over to the kitchen and snatched the handset off the wall. “Ellison,” he barked.

Feeling guilty, Blair tried to corral some of the downy tufts that were filling the air. It was difficult; they slipped away from him like shadows, pushed by the air currents of his approach. He managed to get a decent handful, though, and shoved them into the bag, twisting the neck so they couldn’t get back out. 

“Uh huh,” Jim was saying, his voice flat. “What time? Yeah... yeah... no, no sirens. We’re on our way. Twenty minutes.” He hung up the phone and turned to Blair, all traces of anger gone, wearing that look of focused concentration that Blair associated with work. “That was Simon. Morrison’s come home.”

It took Blair a second to reorient himself to the case they were working on, then he was heading for the stairs. “Just give me a sec to throw some clothes on,” he said over his shoulder as he climbed.

“I’m right behind you,” Jim said, on his heels.

Blair stripped the towel off and dressed quickly, pulling on jeans and a sweater. He could hear Jim doing the same, behind him.

He headed back downstairs, laced up his hiking boots and was strapping his shoulder holster on as Jim joined him. Grabbing their coats from the rack, he tossed Jim’s to him and followed Jim out the door.

“What’s the story?” he asked, as they jogged down the stairs.

“Morrison came home,” Jim said again, with a shrug of one shoulder, an impressive feat since he was using both hands to fasten his waist holster at the time. “The surveillance unit called it in. Simon’s on his way, as are Rafe and H and two more units.”

They exited at the street and Blair hesitated, unable to remember, for a moment, where Jim had parked his truck. But Jim veered off unhesitatingly to the right. Blair followed, shaking his head at his distraction.

Morrison’s place was down by the docks, in a warehouse that had been renovated into studio apartments in the latest wave of urban renewal to sweep downtown Cascade. In fact, Blair realized, as they parked the car a few blocks over and hurried to join Simon at the impromptu command center that had been set up, it was eerily close to where his warehouse had been. Almost six years ago... so much had happened since then....

“Hey.” Jim’s voice broke into his reverie. “You coming?”

“Yeah, sorry.” He shook his head, chiding himself. Couldn’t let personal thoughts and feelings get in the way of the job, he’d learned that now. 

“What have we got, Simon?” Jim asked as they came up to the SWAT van. 

“Morrison’s apartment is in the northwest corner of that warehouse over there,” Simon said, pointing to the building just beyond the one they were stationed behind. “The surveillance unit saw him come home about forty minutes ago. There’s at least two exits, north and south, and there may be more we don’t know about.” He turned to Jim and Blair, handing them earpieces and vests. “I want you two to take the north and east sides, and I’ll send H and Rafe to the west and south. Ten minutes, then I’ll go in with the SWAT team and flush him out.”

“Okay,” Jim said. Blair nodded in agreement as he slid the earpiece in. 

“Stay in touch, let us know if you see something weird, but try to keep the chatter to a minimum.”

“Got it,” Blair said. He looked over at Jim, but his partner was looking at the warehouse and wouldn’t meet his gaze. He felt a little twist of anxiety in his chest. Work had intruded before they’d had a chance to resolve whatever had just happened with the feathers. “You ready, big guy?” he asked, a note of apprehension creeping into his voice.

Jim was silent for a moment, as if lost in thought, then turned to Blair. “Yeah. Let’s head out,” he said shortly.

Blair followed his partner’s broad, Kevlar-covered back as they jogged towards the warehouse, using whatever natural cover they could to disguise their approach. He tried to tell himself that Jim was just focusing on the job at hand, but, for some reason, that didn’t make the thrum of tension in his gut go away. 

They paused in a shallow alcove on the side of one of the other warehouses, and Jim pointed at their target. “Follow me and we’ll check out the east side of the building, make sure there aren’t any exits there,” he said.

“After you, man,” Blair said.

As they came around the corner and flattened themselves against the east wall of Morrison’s warehouse, Blair could see a door. A rusty-looking spotlight hung over it, casting a circle of light in front that was weak compared with the early morning glow. He elbowed Jim and pointed at it.

Glancing at him, Jim nodded sharply, then bent until his lips were close to Blair’s ear. “If it’s open, you take that entrance, and I’ll go to the north side.”

Blair nodded. Under Jim’s cover, he slid along the wall until he reached the door. He grasped the knob firmly and turned it, and felt it give under his hand. The door was unlocked. 

He turned back to Jim, pointed at himself and then at the door, indicating that he was going in. Jim gave him a thumbs-up, then tapped his earpiece. _Stay in touch._

The door opened slowly, but with little noise, something that was interesting in itself, given the advanced state of wear that was evident. Had Morrison prepared this entrance on purpose? He flashed a high sign at Jim and slid inside, pausing to let his vision acclimate to the sudden dimness.

“I’m in on the east side,” he murmured quietly into his headset. “There’s a hallway, with doors to the renovated apartments.” There was a high window in the wall behind him that let in a little light, but otherwise it was fairly gloomy. He pulled a flashlight out of a pocket in his vest and played it around carefully. 

Simon’s voice crackled in his ear, tinny through the headset. “Morrison’s apartment is on the second floor,” he said.

The beam from Blair’s flashlight illuminated a set of stairs. “Found the stairs,” he said.

“Roger that,” Simon replied. “H, Rafe? What’s going on?”

“The west side door was bolted shut from the outside, Simon,” he heard Rafe say. “H and I are positioned outside the south entrance.”

“Ellison?”

Jim was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running. “North door is jammed. Coming around to the east to back up Sandburg.”

“All right, men, let’s go,” Simon said. “Sandburg, you take point.”

“Roger that,” he murmured, slipping up the stairs as quietly as possible, his gun out and held at the ready. 

Once on the second floor, he proceeded cautiously down the hallway until he stood in front of Morrison’s apartment. He lowered his gun to his side, then knocked firmly and called out, “Mr. Morrison! Please open the door. This is the Cascade Police Department.”

The door swung open, and the man standing there was an exact match to Tommy Calhoun’s description, down to the traces of chalk on his pants. “Harry Morrison?” Blair asked.

“Who wants to know?” the man said, belligerently.

“I’m Detective Blair Sandburg, with the Cascade PD, and we’d like you to come down to the station—”

But he didn’t get any farther than that, because Morrison pulled something from behind his back and jammed it into his thigh. He jerked away, but too late. Pain lanced through him, and he fell to his knees with a cry, then collapsed over onto his side. His limbs were jerking; he couldn’t control them, and he was gasping for breath. The bastard had hit him with a stun gun!

“Sandburg!” Simon was bellowing in his ear.

Through a pain-induced haze he could see Morrison fleeing towards the staircase. “He’s out, S-simon,” he gritted out through clenched jaws. “H-heading for the gr-ground floor.”

“All officers!” he heard Simon bark, “Look alert! Suspect is not in custody and is on the move. I repeat, suspect is NOT in custody.”

Things were quiet for a few moments, and then Blair heard footsteps coming up the stairs, heavy and fast. He tried to roll over, tried to tighten his grip on his gun and raise it to protect himself, but his arms and legs were still weak and moving sluggishly. 

A hand grasped his shoulder and he almost flinched. “Sandburg, you okay?” Simon asked quietly.

He sighed with relief. “Yeah, I think so, Captain,” he replied. “Just need a minute.”

“You shot?”

“No, stun gun.” He pushed himself up, his arm muscles trembling, and, with Simon helping, managed to get himself into a sitting position, his back resting against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him.

“Report,” Simon said crisply, and Blair had opened his mouth before he realized Simon was speaking into his com unit.

“Nothing happening over here, Captain.” H’s voice crackled across the earpiece. “Rafe’s gone to help Ellison.”

“Ellison, copy?” Simon asked.

Silence.

Anxiety gathered in Blair’s belly. He shot a worried glance at Simon, who just looked frustrated. “Ellison, report!” Simon snapped.

Nothing.

“He could have taken the earpiece out,” Blair murmured, “which he might have if he’s tracking Morrison by sound.”

Simon exhaled irritably. “How I am supposed....” he started, then stopped, shaking his head. “Never mind. Let’s get out of here. You able to stand?”

“Yeah,” Blair replied. He levered himself up off the floor and to his feet, his leg muscles still quivering slightly. With Simon’s arm around his waist for support, he made his way shakily down the stairs and out of the building.

Once outside, he pulled away from Simon’s grasp. “Thanks, Simon, I’m good now,” he said.

“No,” Simon countered, “you’re not. You’re going to get checked out by the medics.”

“I gotta go find Jim.”

“Sandburg, you were shocked,” Simon snapped. “You’re not going anywhere until a medical professional has cleared you.”

Blair opened his mouth to protest, but was interrupted by Jim’s voice coming over the com link.

“Ellison here. I have the suspect in custody. Repeat, I have Morrison in custody.”

Relief washed through him, and he grinned at Simon. “See? No problem.”

“Banks here,” Simon said. “You need backup, Jim?”

“No,” came the reply, “I’m good. I’m bringing him back to the command center for transport.”

“Roger that.” Simon turned to Blair with a smirk on his face. “Let’s go see the EMTs, Sandburg.”

The paramedics proclaimed him to be in satisfactory condition, medically, although they warned him that he was going to be sore in the morning. He was sitting on the tailgate of the ambulance, gathering his strength to stand, when a white Styrofoam cup intruded into his field of vision.

He looked up to see Jim, smiling at him and handing him a cup of coffee.

“Ohhhh... thank you,” he sighed, accepting the cup and taking a sip. “Where’d you get this?”

“SWAT,” Jim replied. “They usually bring a thermos or two.” He gave Blair a piercing look. “How you doing?”

“Fine,” he lied. Apparently “medically cleared” didn’t equal “feeling good”; he still felt a little nauseous and dizzy, and there was a gentle thumping behind his eyes that portended another skull-bashing headache. But the coffee was making him feel better. He took another sip and eyed Jim as the warmth spread through his insides. “What happened to you? Why didn’t you respond at first?”

Jim shrugged one shoulder. “Morrison got away from me. He’s a clever bastard. He took off for the docks and I almost lost him.” He drank from his own cup of coffee. “Doesn’t matter, we got him. He’s on his way downtown.” 

Blair stood up slowly, testing his balance. “As we should be. Because I’m assuming Simon wants us on the interrogation?”

Nodding, Jim drained his cup and tossed it into the small trash can in the ambulance. “I’ll meet you at the truck; just got to tell Simon something.”

“Okay,” he replied, heading out towards the lot where they had parked.

The doors to the truck were locked when he got there, so he had to dig in his wallet for his spare key, which he didn’t usually have to use when Jim was driving. He could have waited for Jim to get there and unlock it, but he was still feeling a bit shaky, and he really wanted to sit down. 

He pulled the door open, then staggered backwards in shock and surprise.

Two pairs of manacles and several lengths of chain were piled neatly on the passenger seat. 

The Styrofoam cup slipped from suddenly numb fingers and fell to the ground. He could feel it as if it was yesterday; sitting in that dentist’s chair, the cuffs and chains binding him, holding him prey to the whims of a madman.

Panic rose in him like a tsunami, and he fled, stumbling along the cracked asphalt lot, heading back towards the command center.

He was running blindly, so it was just dumb luck that he literally bumped into Simon. “Sandburg!” Simon shouted, irritation clear in his voice. Then a hand grasped his shoulder, hard, and he looked up to see Simon gazing down at him, his brows drawn in concern. “Blair, are you okay?” he asked, quietly. “What’s going on?”

“W-where’s J-jim?” Blair gasped, leaning over and bracing his hands on his knees, trying desperately to catch his breath and slow his pounding heart. 

“Over with the SWAT guys, I think,” Simon said. “Why? What’s the matter?”

And then Jim was there, pushing Simon aside, holding Blair’s shoulders in a firm grip. “Chief, what’s wrong?”

“The truck,” Blair wheezed, his lungs tight with anxiety, “someone’s broken into the truck.”

Squeezing his shoulders gently, Jim shook him a little. “Someone broke into the truck? You’re this upset about someone breaking into the truck?”

“They left something for me. On my seat.”

Jim shot a look at Simon, brows drawn, then straightened, letting go of Blair and pulling his gun out from the holster at his back. He jogged off towards the truck.

Blair trailed after him, aware that Simon and a small group of SWAT and other PD personnel were following as well, drawn by the commotion. 

The passenger door was still standing open. Gun held at the ready, Jim approached that side of the truck cautiously. Blair could see his nostrils flare as he searched for scents, saw his head tilt as he listened. He crept up to the door, then swung around it quickly, his gun aimed inside the cab. He held the pose for a few moments, then stepped back, dropping his weapon to his side. “Sandburg,” he said, his tone clipped. “Come here.”

Blair came over to the truck warily and peered around the door, his heart still thumping fast. 

The passenger seat was empty.

He blinked a few times, then looked up at Jim, who was staring at him accusatorily. “They were there, I swear!”

“What?”

“Manacles and chains! Exactly like... exactly like... _he_ used. Lash.”

A faint murmur rose from the small crowd of PD staff at that statement. 

His heart sank as he saw Jim was staring at him, concern and anxiety mixed in his gaze. He edged around the door and dropped his voice, trying to create some privacy for their conversation. “I _saw_ them, man, I’m telling you! Right there, right on the seat.”

Jim’s expression didn’t change. “Did you touch them?”

“What?”

“Did you touch them? Feel them?”

Confused, Blair shook his head. “No, but why—” He broke off as the light suddenly dawned. “You think I’m imagining things.”

“People have been known to experience hallucinations after being shocked.”

“Jim, this was _not_ a hallucination!” He could hear the edge of anger in his voice. Although he had to admit that Jim had a point. He hadn’t touched the objects.

What if it really _had_ been a hallucination?

Jim raised his head, silently looking out over Blair at the restless crowd beyond, the muscle in his jaw jumping. “Why?” he asked, finally.

“Why what?”

“Why would someone do that? Plant something like that? And how? I locked the truck when we got out.”

Exhaling in irritation, Blair ran a hand through his hair. “I... I don’t know,” he admitted testily. 

Jim’s expression didn’t change as he jammed his gun back in its holster. “We need to get you checked out by a doctor.”

“No!” Blair snapped. Then he took a deep breath and raised his hands, palms towards Jim. “Okay, okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe I... imagined it, or something. This case... it’s tough, and it’s the first serial killer we’ve had since Lash. Maybe it’s bringing up unresolved issues, or something.” He dropped his hands and leaned closer to Jim, lowering his voice. “But I do not need some doctor poking and prodding at me. I’m fine. What I need is to go downtown and write up my report and nail this bastard.”

He held Jim’s gaze as Jim searched his face for several long moments. After what seemed like an eternity, Jim nodded once, sharply. “Simon,” he called over Blair’s head towards their captain, “we’re heading downtown.”

Simon raised a hand in assent and turned back towards the command center, making shooing motions at the other officers to disperse them.

Blair climbed into the truck and fastened his seatbelt as Jim walked around and got in on the driver’s side. “We _are_ going to talk about this later, Sandburg,” he said, turning the key in the ignition

“Sure,” Blair muttered, knowing Sentinel senses would catch it, “it’s all eagerness to talk when it’s my shit but tight as a clam when it’s yours.”

***

Blair pulled his glasses off and rubbed a hand across his face. He blinked several times; his eyes felt dry and swollen and the words on his computer screen seemed to waver and dance like a desert mirage. 

The ride back to the precinct had taken place in total silence. They’d left the truck in the garage and Jim had gone to Booking to check on Morrison’s progress, while Blair had come up to Major Crimes to get a start on the paperwork. 

Normally writing reports was a snap for him, steeped as he had been in the fine academic traditions of grant applications and progress reports, not to mention thesis-speak. But today the words were flowing like concrete.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened after Morrison’s arrest. In his mind’s eye he could see the manacles, iron, thick, slightly rusted; could see the heavy, dull silver links of the chain coiled on top of them. 

Could it really have been a hallucination? It had seemed so real.

But wasn’t that the definition of a hallucination? Something that seemed completely real to you, but that no one else could perceive? And if it had been a hallucination, what did that mean? Was it because of the stun gun? Stress from the case? Delayed reaction to being kidnapped by Lash?

Was he going crazy?

Without warning, two hands circled his neck from behind. Gasping, heart rate skyrocketing, he lurched to his feet and spun around.

Jim was standing behind his chair, both hands raised defensively. “Whoa, Chief,” he said, brow furrowed in concern, “it’s just me.”

Blair blew his breath out in a long sigh. “Sorry, man,” he apologized. “I... I was just lost in my thoughts, didn’t hear you come in.” He flopped back into his chair dispiritedly.

Perching one hip on the desk, Jim’s frown deepened. “I was coming to see how you were feeling, but I think you answered my question.”

Not wanting to get into another pointless argument, Blair changed the subject. “What’s up with Morrison?”

“Nothing right now. He won’t say a word. Asked to call his attorney.”

_Jim looks tired,_ Blair thought. Aloud, he said, “That sucks.”

Jim nodded. “Yeah. I was on my way to Forensics, hoping that if we had the results of the DNA match I could pry something out of him before his lawyer gets here. Thought I’d check on you on the way.”

“I’m fine,” Blair said resolutely. “Just tired. And fighting with this damn report.”

“You want a cup of coffee?”

“I’ll go get it,” he replied, rising and shooing Jim towards the door. “You go talk to Forensics.”

“Better me than you,” Jim said, tossing a grin at Blair as he left.

Blair snorted as he headed for the break room. That was no lie. Sam had been noticeably cool to him ever since their last breakup. 

He poured himself a cup of coffee, adding a little half-and-half from the carton he kept hidden at the back of the fridge. The coffee smelled good, and tasted better, and he returned to his desk in a more positive frame of mind, ready to tackle the report anew.

But when he sat down, slipping his glasses back on, he noticed that his report had disappeared from the screen. In its place was an open word processing document with a few lines of text.

_May 24, 1969._

_Kimberly._

_Eight-and-a-half years old._

He stared at it, puzzled. What was this? Where was his report? Was this someone’s idea of a joke? He scrolled down to the end of the document; his stomach clenched and his heart lurched as the final line came into view.

_Who am I now?_

Terror swept through him and he shot to his feet, pulse thudding in his temples. The words were answers to questions. The questions he’d asked Lash when he was Lash’s prisoner. 

_When’s my birthday?_

_What was the name of my first girlfriend?_

_How old was I when I broke my arm falling out of Mrs. Danbush’s tree?_

A wave of nausea rocked his gut and bile rose in his throat. He turned and scrambled for the men’s room, feet slipping on the slick linoleum of the hallway, praying that the place would be empty.

For once, his prayers were answered, and he flung himself into a stall and onto his knees in time to empty the contents of his stomach into the bowl, his abdominal muscles contracting violently. When that was over, he propped his elbows on the seat and put his aching head in his hands, trying to slow his breathing, trying to get his thoughts in some order and figure out what the hell was going on.

The door to the bathroom flew open with a crash. “Blair?” It was Jim’s voice, tinged with concern. He heard Jim’s steps, and a metallic rattle, and then the stall door creaked open and a wad of paper towels appeared over his left shoulder. “You okay, buddy?” Jim asked.

He flushed and wiped his face and mouth with the towels, then pushed himself to his feet, leaning against the stall wall for support. “Someone here’s got a fucking nasty sense of humor,” he said raggedly, the fear transmuting into annoyance. 

Jim frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll show you.” He pushed away from the wall and led Jim back to the bullpen.

But as they approached his desk, Blair could see that the report was the only thing displayed on his monitor and a prickle of apprehension ran down his spine. “It was on the screen....” he began, but he cut himself off. What if that had been a hallucination, too?

Jim sat down at Blair’s desk and paged through the report on the screen. “This is the only thing I see, and it looks fine to me.”

Blair barely heard him. His head was spinning in confusion and doubt. Could he really have imagined it all? But he’d scrolled down to see the final question. How could that not have been real? Unless he’d hallucinated the whole thing.

Sudden fear squeezed his heart in an icy grip as he realized something. He’d never told anyone about the questions Lash had asked him in the warehouse. There hadn’t been much inquiry after the fact, since Lash was dead, and it had never seemed important enough to tell anyone, not even Jim.

But that meant....

He was the only person who knew about them. 

“Blair?” Jim said softly. “What’s going on?”

“N-nothing,” he stammered quickly, fighting for calm. God, he couldn’t tell Jim about this; after the incident this morning Jim would think he was crazy, or worse. “I... I guess I misunderstood. No big deal.”

Frowning, Jim rose, checking his watch. “Forensics said to check back in a few,” he explained. He put a warm hand on the back of Blair’s neck, squeezing it gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” He gave Jim what felt like an unconvincing smile. “Too much coffee, I think, and not enough real food. I’ll be fine. I just gotta finish this report.”

“Okay.” Jim seemed reluctant to let go of him, his brows furrowed in concern. “I’ll check back in a little while.”

He nodded and gave Jim a thumbs-up, watching him as he walked down the hall towards Forensics. Once Jim was out of sight, he slumped into his chair and buried his face in his hands, trying to keep the panic from overwhelming him. 

God, what in the world was wrong with him? 

***

Simon raised his head at the light knock on his door. “Come in.”

The door swung open a crack and Jim stuck his head in. “Progress report, sir. Forensics got the test results back. Perfect match on all three victims. No doubt Morrison’s our man.”

Simon felt a deep smile of satisfaction spread across his face. Pulling a cigar out of his breast pocket, he twirled it between his fingers. “And no doubt you’ve shared that little fact with him.”

Jim didn’t smile, but his eyes had a triumphant gleam. “I advised him of the evidence we had against him, sir. At that point he chose to make a full confession.”

“Signed?”

Tilting his head towards the bullpen, Jim replied, “Brown is typing it up as we speak. Morrison’s lawyer is making noises about claiming we coerced it, but we’re solid. It won’t stick. I think Morrison’s hoping to throw himself on the mercy of the court.”

Simon snorted. “He’d better hope hard. God knows I wouldn’t have any mercy, with what he’s done.”

Jim nodded soberly, then stepped into Simon’s office and closed the door quietly behind him. “Sir, if it’s okay with you, Sandburg and I are gonna take off.”

Frowning, Simon regarded him with surprise. “You don’t want to see this through?”

“There’s nothing more to do, really. The confession’s a done deal, once Morrison signs he’ll be taken to jail. And....” Jim turned his head and glanced out at the bullpen, over at his partner’s desk.

Simon followed his gaze. Sandburg was sitting with one elbow propped on his desk, his forehead cradled in his hand. “He okay?”

“I’m not sure.”

“This have anything to do with the incident this morning?”

Jim nodded slowly. “I think this case has really gotten to him, Simon. Between that and Morrison’s attack....”

He cut Jim off, waving a hand dismissively in the air. “Go, go. Tell him to... contemplate his navel or whatever it is he does to relax. Be back here tomorrow at 8 am sharp, ready to go.”

“Thanks, sir,” Jim said, a smile crossing his face for the first time during their conversation. “We appreciate it.”

***

Blair sighed, shaking the rain off his coat, feeling some of the anxiety that had been dogging him lessen with the familiar sound of the door locking. The loft meant home, and peace, and sanctuary to him; a safe and comforting place where he could let go a little, relax, and try to work out what the hell was going on with him. 

He slipped out of his shoulder holster and handed it to Jim, along with his coat, to be hung on the coat rack. Tilting his head from side to side, he stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders, trying to work out some of the residual stiffness and tension of the day. 

“Why don’t you go soak for a while in a hot bath?” Jim said, pulling a beer out of the fridge. “I’ll call Thai Delight and order dinner.”

“Oh, God, those sound like great ideas,” he replied. “Shrimp with chili peppers for me....”

Jim was nodding. “And spring rolls. I know.” He grabbed the cordless phone off its base and settled on the couch, flipping on the TV and turning the channel to ESPN. “Give me a shout about thirty minutes before you’re done and I’ll call it in.”

“Sounds good,” Blair replied. He headed in to the bathroom and started the tub filling, then went upstairs to change. _It’s just stress_ , he tried to reassure himself, as he sat on the side of the bed and unlaced his boots. _This case_... _this case has been hard, and it’s the first serial killer case you’ve worked since_....” he swallowed convulsively, _since Lash. It makes sense that it would bring back some bad memories_.

Rising, he stripped his jeans and shirt off, then his underwear, and wrapped himself in his old, tattered but warm plaid robe and pulled wool socks on his feet. He dumped his clothes in the hamper and got clean underwear out of the bureau. _Plus, you had a nasty shock today_ \- _literally. So you had a few weird experiences; saw a few hallucinations? Not the strangest thing that’s ever happened to you. A nice hot bath, a good meal, a little fooling around, and a good night’s sleep and everything will be fine_. 

His impromptu pep talk lifted his spirits somewhat, and he padded downstairs. Jim was still on the couch, now watching the evening news. “Gah, don’t you get enough murder and mayhem at work?” he asked, grinning as Jim took a pull from his beer and waved his hand dismissively in Blair’s direction.

The bathroom was nice and warm; the mirror over the sink foggy with steam. The tub looked nearly full; he pushed aside the shower curtain and reached to turn off the water. 

There was a yellow scarf tied around the faucet. 

He lurched backwards, coming down hard on his ass. His throat went dry and his pulse skyrocketed. _Oh, God, not again_ , he thought. 

This had to stop. Pushing his fear aside, he grasped the knobs firmly and turned the water off, then touched the scarf. He half expected his fingers to go right through it, but they didn’t. To his hands, at least, it felt solid. _Can you have a double hallucination?_ he thought, with a tinge of hysteria. _Visual and tactile at once?_

Heart pounding, he untied the scarf and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Jim!” he called hoarsely, stumbling out of the bathroom.

Jim was up and off the couch in a flash, taking long strides over to where Blair was standing in front of the kitchen island. Hands shaking, Blair held the scarf out. Jim took it from him, his brows knitting as he studied it. Relief washed through Blair so strongly that he felt light-headed for a moment. “Oh, thank God,” he gasped, “you can see that.”

Jim nodded gravely, running the scarf through his hands. “I always preferred silk,” he said, “but all I could find on short notice was polyester.”

Before Blair could react, Jim had grabbed his wrist and swung him around, slamming him into the pillar face-first. The impact jammed his jaw shut and he tasted coppery blood as his teeth bit into his tongue. Dazed, Blair fumbled for words while Jim jerked his other arm behind his back and started wrapping the scarf tightly around his wrists. “Jim, what the fuck?” he mumbled.

“I’m going to finish what I started in that warehouse,” Jim said, his tone low with menace, “and this time, there’s no knight in shining armor to rescue you.”

Dread prickled across Blair’s scalp and crawled across his skin like worms. His knees wobbled as a terrible understanding coalesced in his head. “Lash,” he hissed. “How?”

“You don’t know? You opened the door.”

_Door? What door? What the hell was he talking about?_ Then it hit him.

Shit. The crime scene yesterday. Sending Tommy Calhoun’s spirit to the other side.

“You were the one who destroyed that pillow this morning, didn’t you?” he challenged.

Lash chuckled with Jim’s voice. “Child’s play. You’re so easy to fool. You believed whatever I told you. You didn’t suspect a thing.” 

He shuddered. “And you put the manacles and the chain on the seat where I would see them.”

“I went out and got them early this morning,” Lash admitted. “Then I had to double back to put them on the seat once the SWAT team had entered the building. That took time; one of the reasons it took me so long to catch Morrison. But it was worth it for the look on your face.”

“And once I had seen them, you removed them,” Blair said grimly. “But why? Just to make me think I was going crazy?”

“Oh, it’s not just to make _you_ think you’re going crazy....” Lash said. 

Blair felt a chill at that, remembering the people who had seen his meltdown at the truck. But there was something more important that he wanted to know. “How did you know the answers to those questions?”

Lash finished tying Blair’s wrists and shoved him up against the pillar. “I know because your partner knows. I know everything he knows. I don’t have to _try_ and be like someone anymore. I _am_ someone. I know Ellison’s mannerisms, his habits. I have his memories. I know how he acts, I know how he thinks, I know how he speaks. I don’t even have to work hard to be him.”

Jim’s body pressed against him, hard, his hips rocking suggestively over Blair’s ass. “I know what he wants, what he needs, what he’s done, and what you’ve done in return,” Lash crooned in his ear. “And I’m going to enjoy myself.” His hands fumbled at the opening of Blair’s robe.

Blair felt his stomach roll with nausea and he bucked, trying to push Lash off of him. Lash grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, slamming him back up against the pillar, driving the air from his lungs. Then Lash leaned in close. “I was going to kill you both; make it look like you’d snapped and shot Ellison, then killed yourself. But this body....” His breath was warm on Blair’s ear. “He’s so strong, so powerful,” he whispered. “Such a warrior. It’s exactly what I’ve always wanted to be. And these senses.... There’s no way I can give this up now. So I’m afraid you’ll have to be alone in your tragic end.” He pulled at the tie around Blair’s waist. “After I have some fun.”

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Blair snarled.

Jim’s face was oddly devoid of expression as his fist crashed into the side of Blair’s face, snapping his head to the side and making stars dance at the edges of his vision. His legs wobbled and he slumped to the floor, the impact sending an agonizing jolt through his shoulders. 

“I’d watch your mouth, hippy boy,” Lash snapped, as he gathered a fistful of Blair’s robe and hauled him upwards. “I don’t need you conscious in order to get my rocks off.” He slammed Blair back against the pillar, then slapped him hard, openhanded. Blair tasted blood, again. Then Lash pushed his leg in between Blair’s, pinning Blair between Jim’s body and the pillar.

Without thinking, Blair closed his eyes and reacted, bringing his knee up as hard as he could, slamming it into Jim’s groin. 

Jim’s body doubled over, expelling air in a great _whoosh_ , and then crumpled to the ground, gasping in agony, hands cupping his crotch.

Heat rushed into Blair’s face as he jerked away from the pillar. His feet tangled together and, stumbling backwards, he fell on his ass, hard, the jolt traveling up his spine and making his jaw close with a sharp click. He could feel his tongue, sore and swelling in his mouth. For a moment he could do nothing except stare at Jim’s body writhing on the floor. Then the ache in his shoulders reminded him of his situation. He twisted his wrists furiously, fighting against his bonds, breath hissing through his teeth, the awkward angle bringing tears of pain to his eyes. But finally he got the scarf loosened, and then unwound, and he scrambled frantically towards the door, the only thought in his head to get out of the loft while Jim’s body was incapacitated. 

He found himself standing on the sidewalk outside the loft in the rain, naked except for his robe and wool socks, shivering and wondering what to do next. Raising his hand, he realized that, fortunately, he’d had enough presence of mind to grab the keys to the Volvo.

Somehow, he got into the car and got it started, and lurched away down the street. The pedals felt rough and unfamiliar through the wool and his feet shifted on them clumsily. He realized that he was shaking; he turned the heater up as high as it would go, but he couldn’t feel any warmth. _Shock_ , he thought dazedly. There was a noise in his ears, a high, bright, whine, and the landscape outside the car looked strange and distorted.

He realized, with a start, that he’d been parked on a residential street for some period of time. It couldn’t have been too long, because the Volvo’s engine was still ticking. Glancing around, he recognized Simon’s house. Relief washed through him, and he staggered out of the car and up to the door, pressing the bell frantically.

“Sandburg?” Simon’s look of annoyance at having his dinner interrupted quickly transmuted into shock and concern when he saw Blair standing on his porch. 

“S-simon.” His teeth were starting to chatter, whether from the cold or the stress of the night’s events or both he wasn’t sure. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course,” Simon said, pushing the screen door open and stepping back. “Sorry, you surprised me....” He trailed off as Blair shuffled inside, and closed the door behind him, the deadbolt snapping home with a soft _snick_. Blair heard him turn, heard his sharp intake of breath, and then Simon had gripped his shoulder tightly, turning Blair to face him. “Christ, Blair, what happened? Did you... did you get in a fight or something?”

Blair’s heart plummeted. What had he been thinking, coming here? Bruised and disheveled, soaking wet, half-naked... how the hell was he going to explain this to Simon? “I... I....” he stuttered, unable to think of a convincing story. “It’s... it’s not... it’s okay, I just need a place to stay for a little while.”

Simon’s brow furrowed. His grip on Blair’s shoulder loosened. “Is there something you need to tell me?” he asked softly. _Did_ Jim _do this to you?_ The unspoken question hung in the air between them.

“No,” he said flatly, “no.” The warmth and light had revived him a little, clearing his head and allowing him to think. “It’s... it’s a Sentinel thing, Simon.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but he hoped he’d be forgiven the obfuscation. “I just... I need a place to rest, get my head together, figure stuff out.”

“Okay.” Simon’s eyes had taken on that wary, I-don’t-want-to-hear-too-much-about-this-Sentinel-crap look, which Blair had been counting on, but his hand hadn’t moved off of Blair’s shoulder. “But Jim’s okay?”

“Yeah.” _If by okay you mean writhing around on the floor in pain, possessed by the spirit of a dead serial killer,_ he silently amended. “Would I leave him if he wasn’t?” He pushed aside the guilt that clenched his stomach. Lash wasn’t going to let anything permanently damage Jim’s body. Jim’s spirit – now that was another matter.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Simon said, giving Blair a small, rueful smile. He headed up the stairs, waving for Blair to follow him. “You can stay in Daryl’s room. It’s here on the right. And I think he’s got some old sweatpants and a t-shirt that you can borrow.”

Numbly, Blair trailed after him, accepting the clothes Simon found for him. “Go finish your dinner,” he urged Simon. “I’m just going to clean up a little and then crash.”

“Okay,” Simon replied. “Just call me if you need anything.”

He took a quick shower, then dressed in the sweats, which swam on him despite the fact that Daryl had grown out of them several years ago. His shoulders and his wrists ached, as well as the side of his face, his tongue was throbbing, and his head was pounding. Pulling his wet hair back into a ponytail, he took some aspirin that he had found in the medicine cabinet and crawled into bed, exhausted.

But he couldn’t fall asleep. Now that the immediate problem of getting away from Lash had been solved, and he was dry and safe, other, deeper fears began to churn around in his mind. How had this happened? How had Lash been able to come through? Had he done something at the crime scene, or in the spirit world, that had put Jim in danger? More importantly, what the hell was he going to do about it? Could he force Lash to leave? How? Would it hurt Jim?

He didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do. This was worse than the situation at the crime scene. Then, the health of someone he cared about hadn’t been riding on his shamanic knowledge. He’d wanted to get Tommy’s spirit home, but whether he did or not wasn’t going to affect Jim. Now, his failure might have doomed someone he loved.

A chill gripped him, wrenching his guts. Maybe it was already too late. Maybe Jim’s spirit, or soul, or whatever, was already gone. Maybe Lash had already gotten rid of him. Maybe the process was irreversible.

On the verge of a panic attack, he sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. Maybe Simon would have some tea or warm milk or something, anything that would help him quiet his thoughts and get some rest. 

The phone rang, and as he opened the door he heard Simon answer it. There was a pause, then Simon’s voice dropped. “Look, Jim, whatever’s going on, it’s none—”

Blair froze, his heart thudding anxiously against his ribs. Simon was quiet, obviously listening to whatever Jim - _no, Lash_ he reminded himself – was saying. 

“Uh-huh,” Simon was saying, and, after a pause, “uh-huh” again. Then Blair heard his voice drop. “You’re saying he did that to himself?”

His chest was tight; he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He remembered Lash’s taunt – _it’s not just to make_ you _think you’re crazy_ \- and it felt like a ball of ice had slid into his gut. He heard Simon exhale heavily. “Jim, I know you said this case had brought up some issues for him, but do you really think Blair would—” Another long pause. Then Simon’s voice again, softer. “No, no, he’s okay. He said he was going to try and get some sleep. Do you want me—” Silence, then Simon replied, “Okay. I’ll wait until you get here.”

_Fuck_. Blair shut the door quietly, his thoughts racing. He’d never really considered it to be an option, but now he was never going to be able convince Simon that Jim was really Lash.

He had to get out of here. Moving silently, he crossed the room and looked out the window. A small side yard with a few trees, partially concealed from the main road. Not great cover, but if he got moving before Lash got here he wouldn’t need to worry about it too much.

As quietly as possible, he flipped the lock and slid the window open. He glanced longingly at Darryl’s sneakers, lined up neatly in his closet, but they were way too big and would only end up slowing him down. _Cold and wet is my world_ , he thought with a grim smile, and swung himself out of the window, feet first.

The drop was a little farther than he’d expected, and he landed hard, with a grunt, in a row of boxwoods planted along the side of the house. His right ankle buckled beneath him and he fell to his hands and knees, clenching his teeth shut against a cry of pain. It was still raining, and the ground under the bushes was cold and muddy, but he forced himself to be still, listening carefully for any sign that Simon had heard him. 

Nothing happened, and after a few minutes Blair allowed himself to exhale. His ankle throbbed; it felt like he’d landed on it wrong and given it a good wrench, but he couldn’t allow it to stop him. Pushing himself out of the thorny hedge, he hobbled slowly towards Simon’s back yard, keeping close to the house. 

The yard was short, and dark, and he managed to get across it relatively quickly, despite the prickling feeling along his back and the certainty in his gut that, any minute now, he’d hear the back door open and Simon shout “Sandburg! What the hell are you doing out here?”

But he didn’t, and when he reached the wooden fence that marked the end of Simon’s property he leaned against it for a moment, resting his hands on his knees and catching his breath. He looked back at the house, but everything was quiet. Through the kitchen window he could see Simon standing at the sink, his profile visible as he washed the dishes. A lump rose in Blair’s throat at the prosaic sight. Was it only yesterday that his biggest problem had been a live serial killer? Now he had a dead one to contend with as well, not to mention a boss who thought he was nuts and a possessed partner and lover, whom he might or might not be able to return to his natural state. 

His eyes stung and he rubbed his damp and muddy sleeve across them roughly. _Enough with the pity party, Sandburg,_ he told himself sharply. _Time to get moving._

Resolutely, he reached up and grabbed the top of the fence, hauling his body over with sheer muscle strength and force of will, his sock-clad toes scrabbling at the wooden slats. The mud had made his hands slippery, though, and once over the fence, his grip slid and he fell, tumbling down a slight incline to land with a splash in a shallow stream. “You know,” he grumbled under his breath to any deities that might be listening, “my mentioning being cold and wet was not a request, damn it.”

He dragged himself out of the water and leaned against a tree, trying to get his bearings. The small copse behind Simon’s house was sparsely wooded, and he could see the lights of the nearby houses through the trees. The area looked vaguely familiar; he frowned and ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out why. 

Memory returned in a sudden rush, along with the beginnings of a plan. He turned and limped off through the woods, aiming for a small yellow house to the south and east of Simon’s. Although he’d never approached it from this direction before, he had no trouble identifying it; the crisp white trim on the windows and the doors and the neat yard, edged with colorful flowerbeds, were unmistakable. 

When he saw the fence around the back yard, he veered around to the right, hobbling as stealthily as he could between the yellow house and its neighbor. Pausing for a moment, he crouched at the end of the fence, scanning the street ahead for any sign that he had been observed. But the street was quiet; warm golden light spilling out from behind drawn curtains. 

He waited for a minute, counting it out slowly in his head, and then another. He wanted to wait longer, but he was too afraid that Lash was already after him. He’d left a trail a blind man could follow, let alone a psychopath with Sentinel senses at his command. So, taking a deep breath, he moved as quickly as he could across the lawn and up a few stairs on to the dark porch, and knocked on the door.

The door opened a crack, the figure standing in there in silhouette due to the light from the house. “Blair?” 

“Hi, Corrina.” He smiled at her ruefully. “May I come in?”

They had been lovers for a few months after he and Jim had caught Murphy and Cortez. The night when they had recreated the bembe, when she had been possessed by Oshun, she had thrown her shawl over him and whispered, “Tu pertenece a mí, el hermoso” - _You belong to me, beautiful one_. She was gorgeous, and he’d been intoxicated by her scent, her movements, her sensuality. 

But it hadn’t lasted. He’d tried to deny it at the time, but the hard truth was that Jim came first in his life, even when he didn’t think his feelings would ever be requited. And Corinna Santiago was not someone who wanted to play second fiddle. Nor should she be. She was amazing, and beautiful, and compassionate, and wise, and she deserved to be in a relationship with someone who was as committed to her as she was to him. All of which he’d told her when he’d tried to explain why he was breaking up with her. But it hadn’t made it any easier.

Wordlessly she swung the door open, motioning him inside, but her expression shifted from surprise to horror as he limped from the dim porch to the well-lit foyer. “Blair, _Madre de Dios_ , are you all right? What happened to you?”

“I... uh... it’s nothing, really. It looks worse than it feels.”

She touched the side of his face lightly, and her fingers were cool against his aching jaw. “You look like hell,” she said flatly. 

“It’s nothing,” he repeated.

“It’s not nothing,” she said, her gaze hardening. “I’m going to call the police.”

“No!” He grabbed her wrist as she turned away, a little harder than he had intended, and she spun on him with anger sparking in her eyes. 

Ashamed, he let go quickly. “I’m sorry, Corrina,” he said. “It’s just... a friend of mine’s in trouble, and the police can’t really help.”

Her face took on the cool, flat expression he remembered from so many of their fights. “Is this about Jim?” she asked.

“Um, yes, he’s involved, but....” He struggled with how to explain what was going on, and decided to just plunge ahead and make his request. “Corrina, I... I need you to let me into the botanica, where you hold the bembe. Please.”

She frowned at him, her look darkening. “Why?”

His heart sank. He knew only too well her opinion about his shamanic calling; that was another thing they’d frequently argued about. She’d felt very strongly that he needed to immerse himself in Chopec culture and get rigorous training and supervision, the way she had in becoming a priestess. She had nothing but scorn for “these New Age shamans”, as she called them, whom she saw as appropriating various concepts and parts of rituals without an appreciation of the context or of the forces they were playing with. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t agreed with her, in principle... it was just that he couldn’t leave Jim alone and go haring off to the jungle for a year or more.

He’d known she wouldn’t like the idea. Nevertheless, this was his best – and only – plan. He took a deep breath. “I need to do something in the spirit world, but I’m not very experienced at this, and I think it will help to be in a place with a lot of spiritual resonance, like the botanica.”

“ _Maldigalo_ , Blair,” she said, disgust in her tone, “do you know how long it took us to cleanse the space after Donoghue’s murder?”

“But that wasn’t my fault,” he protested.

She looked away from him, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her mouth pressed in a thin, unyielding line.

“ _Please_ , Corrina,” he begged, his voice cracking. “It’s important. Life or death important. You know I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t.”

Silence. Blair waited, knowing there was nothing more he could say that would affect her decision. 

Corrinab sighed. “ _Mi Dios, como tu lo quieres_ ,” she murmured, shaking her head. _My God, how you love him_. She glanced up at him, her expression softening slightly. “All right. But if there’s any damage, or anything, you are going to help us clean it up.”

“Absolutely. I promise.” Relief washed through him like a drug and he felt his eyes prickle with tears of gratitude and relief. “Thank you, Corrina. From the bottom of my heart, I mean it. Thank you.”

“Just don’t make me regret this,” she admonished. “Let me get my keys and we’ll leave.”

***

He pushed past Banks as soon as Banks opened the door, sniffing, searching for the particular signature that Ellison knew as Sandburg’s scent. He found it, but it was faint; partially masked by the strong aroma coming from Banks’ lit cigar.

His search of Ellison’s memories suggested that Ellison’s concern for Sandburg would get manifested as abruptness, so he turned to face Banks and put some urgency into his voice. “Where is he?”

“He’s upstairs, sleeping.” Banks put a hand on his arm as he headed for the stairs. “Jim, wait. Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”

“Damn it, Simon, yes, I am!” He didn’t have to completely fake his irritation at the delay; he was practically salivating with anticipation to get his hands on Sandburg, to look him in the eyes and see Sandburg realize that he was a dead man. 

“It’s just... he seemed okay, earlier. Banged up, but, you know, not crazy or anything.”

The information he’d gathered suggested that this would be the point at which Ellison would relent, letting the facade of annoyance slip and confiding in Banks. He sighed, rubbing his forehead wearily, letting his body slump. “I _know_ , Simon, I know. He seemed fine to me earlier, too. But suddenly he’s screaming about how I’m possessed, and I’m going to kill him, and he comes at me – thank God he didn’t have his gun on him - and then he ran out of the house.” He looked up, meeting Simon’s gaze directly, dropping his voice a little and putting as much sincerity into it as he could muster. “I just want him home, where he’s safe and I can take care of him. If things get any worse, I’ll call you, I promise.”

Simon patted him gently on the shoulder, his eyes sorrowful. “Okay, Jim. And you’re right, there’s no one I’d rather have with him than you right now.” He started walking up the stairs. “He’s up here, in Darryl’s old room. Follow me.”

It took real effort to hide the triumph he was feeling as he followed Simon up the stairs. Not only had he managed to completely fool Banks into thinking he was Ellison, he’d convincingly set the stage to explain away Sandburg’s murder as self-defense. His fingers twitched slightly as he imagined how good it would feel to wrap his hands around Sandburg’s throat, hold him under the water, watch the life slowly bleed away from him. Ellison’s body was so strong; he wouldn’t even need the chloral hydrate. He could take his time, enjoy every nuance. And the fear in Sandburg’s eyes, the terror, as he realized that he was going to die at the hands of his lover... a surreptitious shiver ran through him. This was just going to be delicious. 

And maybe it would crush Ellison as well. Not that there was anything that Ellison could do to stop him. But he could still hear the man, an echo in his head, shouting at him, distracting him. It would be good to be free of that. 

Yes. Kill Sandburg and, he was sure, Ellison would give up, fade away.

Banks had rapped on the door and called Sandburg’s name, but there was no answer. With an apologetic glance backwards, he turned the knob and pushed open the door. “Blair?” he called out; then, “What the hell?....”

He shoved past Banks into the room, pleasure transmuting into cold fury as he saw the empty bed, the open window. The little shit had escaped! 

“Damn it!” he snarled, striding to the window. Sure enough, here was Sandburg’s scent, strong, on the sill and the pane. He stuck his head out and looked down. Ellison’s hyper vision gave him a clear view of the imprints Sandburg had made in the mud at the side of the house. 

“This is Banks; get me Dispatch.” He spun around to see Banks talking into his cell phone. “I want an APB on....”

“No!” The word came out in a guttural growl. He crossed the room in a few, swift strides and snatched the phone out of Banks’ hand, slamming it closed and ending the call. 

Banks stared at him, confusion and shock in his eyes.

With an immense effort of will, he reined in his anger. “I’ll find him. I need to find him.” He couldn’t quite manage to imbue his voice with the level of concern he had earlier. Still, it was the best he could do. And he couldn’t wait around to see how it played.

He headed down the stairs and out the door, jogging around to the left, picking up Sandburg’s trail as soon as he turned the corner. The scent was so strong; he didn’t even need to examine the trampled bushes and muddy, marked ground underneath the window, but hurried past it out into the back yard.

“Jim!” He was dimly aware of Simon shouting at him from the open window, but he was too focused on his quest to care. Vaulting the fence easily, he slid down the embankment and across the stream. 

He lost Sandburg’s spoor for a moment near the water, but then picked it up again right away. _Fool_ , he thought. If Sandburg had followed the stream for a while instead of going straight into the woods, it would have made him more difficult to follow. Clearly the little shit hadn’t learned anything working with Ellison. 

The scent led him unerringly to a small, yellow house on the outskirts of the woods. He slipped easily over that fence, too, and then crouched down in a dark corner of the back yard. Using hearing and vision, he scanned the house and environs thoroughly.

No one was home, that was clear. But there was a rectangular area on the driveway that wasn’t as dark as the rest. He sidled over to it, staying low, and brushed his fingers over it. He nodded grimly to himself. It was as he’d thought. The area was lighter because it wasn’t as wet. A car had been parked here, and it hadn’t been long since it had left. 

He stood and took a deep breath, scenting. Sandburg had definitely been here; his smell was all over the place. But there was something else, another odor beneath Sandburg’s... something sweet, floral... something Ellison found familiar....

Verbena. He riffled through Ellison’s memories until he’d found the ones connected with that scent, and his mouth curved in a grin as the pieces clicked into place. Now he knew where Sandburg had gone.

Ignoring the impotent howls of rage in his head, he headed back to Simon’s house to get his car. 

***

Blair sat in the center of a hastily-chalked circle on the floor, trying to collect himself and calm his pounding heart. Candles flickered on the altar; he took a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of beeswax wash over and relax him. 

Corrina had let him in to the room in the back of the botanica and had helped him find candles and chalk. Then he had urged her to go, insisting he needed to do this on his own. He didn’t know what Lash would do to her if he found her here, but he didn’t want to find out. 

In truth, though, he wished she could have stayed. He had no idea what he was doing. The times he’d gone to the spirit world previously had been by accident or with drugs, so he really would have liked to have someone there who had an inkling of what was going on, or who at least would be able to call someone if something went wrong. 

_Okay, just buck up, Sandburg,_ he told himself firmly. _This isn’t helping your anxiety level go down any. Take another deep breath and let’s get started._

He closed his eyes, trying to think of an image that would help him focus. Jim’s face sprang to mind, giving him a lazy, knowing grin, but paradoxically the sight just made him more nervous. What if he couldn’t get into the spirit world? And even if he could, exactly how was he going to force Lash out of Jim’s body? Was Jim even still in there, or was he banished to some spirit limbo? Or worse?

Shaking his head sharply, he tried to get rid of the thoughts. _This isn’t going to help,_ he chided. _Think of something else._

That was when he saw the wolf in his mind’s eye. Sitting and looking directly at him, blue eyes surprisingly gentle and compassionate in the pointed face. 

He exhaled, feeling his muscles unclench. A few deep, slow breaths and he felt his body fall into that loose, warm heaviness he associated with meditation.

The wolf stood, and shook himself, then turned and trotted across the room. Blair followed effortlessly.

It was as if he was walking through mist, or heavy fog. Everything around him was white; whiteness was all he could see. Then, slowly, the whiteness dissipated.

He was in a warehouse. The place was dark, but bright shafts of bluish-white light streamed in through the high, broken windows. It all looked slightly familiar, as if he’d been here before, but he’d been seeing things from a different angle. Looking down at himself, he saw that he was dressed in full assault gear, a gun in his hand, his badge clipped to his belt. His head itched; he reached up to scratch and found that he was wearing a wool cap. 

Something moved ahead and to his left and he turned towards it, bringing up his weapon. There was a room there, with warm flickering light spilling out of the doorway. He could hear voices as well, two distinct ones, talking back and forth, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Keeping his gun at the ready, he crept towards the room. 

As he got closer, he could hear muffled grunts and thumps; sounds of a struggle. Quickly, he covered the last few feet and stepped through the doorway, shouting “Police! Freeze!”

The sight that met his eyes made him gape. It was Lash’s lair, where he’d been held before, only this time it was Jim in the dentist’s chair, manacled, the yellow scarf hanging loosely around his neck. Lash, dressed like Jim, was backing away from the chair slowly.

Anger rushed through him, fierce and protective, and he snapped the gun up, the sight directly on Lash’s chest. “I said freeze, you asshole!” he snarled. His heart pounded with a kind of furious elation. This was his chance. He was going to end it all, end _Lash_ , pay him back for kidnapping him, possessing Jim....

Lash looked at him, his back against the wall, his eyes wide, and there was terror in his gaze. Terror, and... something else... something just below the surface... a plea, imploring....

“Sandburg, shoot him!” Jim shouted. “Shoot the bastard; finish this!”

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Every nerve and muscle in his body was screaming it, but he couldn’t name it, couldn’t put a finger on what it was. But something was wrong. 

“Goddamnit, Blair, what kind of cop _are_ you? Fire already!”

He glanced over at Jim. Jim was leaning forward in the chair, his hands clenched into fists, his mouth contorted into a rictus of wrath... except that, Blair noticed, the corners of his mouth were turned up, slightly... and the eyes that met Blair’s shone with a deadly triumph. 

Without conscious thought, he swung the muzzle of his gun over and fired at Jim.

There was a high, inhuman scream. Things went blurry for a moment, as if someone had spun the world out of focus. When it went back to normal, it was Lash that was sitting in the dentist’s chair. Jim, manacled and now gagged, was standing against the wall where Lash had been. The look he shot Blair was one of profound relief.

But he didn’t have time to say anything to Jim, because Lash had launched himself out of the chair and was coming at him, screaming, “You bastard! That disguise was perfect! How did you see through that?”

He tried to bring his gun up, but too late; Lash barreled into him and they crashed against the flimsy wooden banister, tumbling down the stairs. Lash was fighting for his gun, and he was trying to hang on to it, scrambling to get to his feet and get his bearings; then something gave way beneath them and they plummeted downwards. 

The air was knocked out of him when he landed, and his gun skittered away into the darkness. He spent a few minutes gasping like a caught fish, then a few minutes more hauling air into his lungs once the momentary shock had passed. 

This area of the warehouse was less decrepit than where he’d been earlier, and, consequently, much darker. The windows were boarded up, letting in only pencil-thin beams of light that did little to illuminate the space around him. Heaving himself to his feet, he cautiously crept farther into the huge, empty space. Lash was nowhere to be seen.

Something moved to his right, in his peripheral vision. He whirled, but before he could parse apart the heavy shadows something slashed across his right shoulder. Stifling a cry, he twisted away, but then the thing struck again and pain exploded across his back. 

His shoulder and back throbbed, and he could feel blood trickling down his arm. The pain was making him dizzy. Gritting his teeth, he turned in a circle, blinking furiously to clear his sight, trying to find his tormentor. “Coward!” he shouted. Taunting had seemed to give him an edge before. “Show yourself, and let’s settle this one-on-one. Or are you afraid to face me?”

One of the shadows in front of him moved, detaching itself slightly from the darkness. An inchoate blot of darkness, its form kept shifting and pulsating. Gleaming silver claws appeared, dripping with blood. A pair of yellow eyes gazed at him with otherworldly surety.

“This is _my_ world,” Lash crooned. “You don’t belong here. You have no power here.”

“Bullshit,” Blair growled, with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. “In case you didn’t realize it, I’m a shaman, and your ass is mine, spirit.”

After all, as a shaman, he should have just as much ability as Lash to mold the spirit world to his whims, right? Pushing aside his doubts, he drew on the rage that had been simmering inside him since he’d stepped into Lash’s lair and seen Jim. He forced himself to focus, to ignore the aches and pain in his body. Reaching his hand out in front of him, he concentrated on making his gun materialize in his hand. 

Nothing happened.

Lash’s laughter filled the room, harsh and mocking. “You have lost, _shaman_ ,” he said, his emphasis making the name an insult, “before you even got started.”

A thread of anxiety twisted through his gut. Redoubling his efforts, he tried to manifest some kind of energy; fire, electricity, something, anything that could be used, offensively or defensively, to thwart Lash. He reached deep, gathering all his frustration, all his anger, all his fear, all the obstinate cockiness that had kept him alive last time, and visualizing all of it as a ball of raw power in his hand, waiting to be deployed. 

Nothing happened. 

Panic seized him. His throat tightened in fear, and what little confidence he had had drained away like water. Lash was right. He was no shaman, and he didn’t know how to make this work. 

“I think,” Lash jeered, his voice silky-smooth with menace, “that it’s _your_ ass that is going to be _mine_ , Sandburg.”

The shadow moved, and Blair felt the claws bite across the backs of his legs, sending him to his knees, his head reeling with pain. A flash of silver, and agony burned across his chest.

He closed his eyes, his heart filling with despair. He had failed. He hadn’t taken Incacha’s gift seriously, and now his lack of attention and procrastination was going to get both him and Jim killed. Not to mention unleashing a monstrous evil upon the world in Jim’s body. 

“Incacha, please,” he whispered, “help me. I know I don’t deserve it, I know I haven’t been a good student, but please... don’t let Jim die because of me. It’s not his fault.”

Lash’s attacks were coming faster, now, opening wounds on every part of Blair’s body that he could reach, and Blair could feel his strength ebbing away. Paradoxically, the pain was lessened now. He felt detached, as the world faded around him.

... _the root of the shaman’s power is love_...

It was like a whisper that insinuated itself into his consciousness. Now he remembered the words Incacha had spoken to him in his dream. 

The root of the shaman’s power is love.

So to fight Lash he had to love him? Impossible.

But his mind was drawn, inexorably, to the interrogation room at Cascade PD, when they had questioned Lash’s father.

... _Davey was a strange little egg, I’ll tell you_... _me and the mama, we could never connect with him, you know?_... 

He remembered Lash’s father telling them about the abuse that Lash had suffered at the hands of his mother. Remembered how the man had seemed completely indifferent to it.

... _the boy was a devil. I was hoping she would kill him_...

The disgust and sadness he’d felt came back to him like it was yesterday. Lash had been a child; a disturbed child, maybe, but still just a child. No one deserved that kind of treatment. No child deserved to be thrown away like that. 

He remembered sitting on the steps of the Temple in his dream, with Incacha; remembered the tiny globe that the older shaman had cradled in his hands; remembered the overwhelming feeling of awe and wonder that had risen in him at the sight of it.

... _all life is linked to other life, and all must be cherished, even the parts that are damaged or incomplete_...

Incacha’s words rang in his head, and suddenly he understood. He’d been using the wrong emotion. He’d been drawing on his anger and his fear for Jim to sustain him and empower him during the fight. No wonder it hadn’t worked. That wasn’t the right source. 

He reached for that thread of compassion and fed it with the incandescent joy he’d felt during the dream. _All life must be cherished_ , he told himself. He pushed all anger and fear, cold hate and pain out of his head, concentrating only on empathy, understanding, warmth, and love. 

The small part of him that was still in the warehouse was aware that Lash was preparing to make a final attack, and he threw himself into loving with all his heart. He thought about Jim, and how much he loved him; thought about Naomi, Simon, Megan, Joel, everyone in Major Crimes, his friends, his family. Ecstasy filled him like a river in flood, joy surging through him like a song. The hair rose on his arms and the back of his neck, and it was as if he was standing in the middle of a geyser of pure, bright emotion. He could sense, as he had in the dream, the delicate web of life energy that surrounded and penetrated the earth; could sense the parts that were broken and damaged, but there was nothing but love in his heart, encompassing it all.

He heard the charge, heard Lash’s defiant howl, like nails on a chalkboard. Lowering his head, he braced himself for the final blow. 

Nothing happened.

He opened his eyes slowly. He was still on his knees, but the warehouse was gone, replaced by a luminescent, pearly mist. Looking down at himself, he noticed that there was no pain, no blood. The wounds sustained in his fight with Lash were gone. 

Raising his head, he saw a young boy standing in front of him.

The child looked about six years old. He stared at Blair solemnly, sucking on his thumb. Dirty-blond hair hung lank and unkempt around his face; long bangs partially obscured his green eyes. He was dressed in a stained t-shirt and ill-fitting jeans that looked secondhand. 

“Hey,” Blair said softly. He didn’t even have to wonder who the child was. The stamp of the man could be seen easily in the boy’s face. 

The kid pulled his thumb out of his mouth. “Who’re you?” he asked, in a flat, reedy voice.

“My name is Blair.”

“I’m Davey.” He looked around. “Where are we?”

“It’s, uh... it’s kind of a way station.”

The kid looked around again, then nodded and sat down on the ground, crossing his legs tailor-style, picking at his shoelaces.

Blair sat, too, legs crossed in the same way. “Are you scared?” he asked.

“Nope,” Davey shook his head. “It’s nice and quiet here.” He gave Blair a sharp glance, then went back to studying his sneakers. “Why’re _you_ here?”

“To help you, I think.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, a smile curving one side of his mouth. “It’s what I do.”

“My mom and dad, they don’t love me,” Davey announced. He looked up at Blair defiantly, as if he was daring Blair to contradict him. 

Blair held his gaze evenly. The impulse to say something trite but reassuring about how parents always loved their children was strong, but he resisted it. 

“They love my brother Jimmy, but they don’t love me. I can feel it when they hug me; see it when they look at me.”

“I’m sorry,” Blair said quietly. “That sucks.”

“It’s not fair!” the boy blurted out, sudden fury distorting his features. Then, as if ashamed of his outburst, he looked away. 

“No, it’s not,” Blair agreed.

Davey sat silently for a long time, head bowed. Then he sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Sometimes I get so mad at Jimmy, I just want to hit him. That’s what my dad does when he’s mad at my mom. And then my mom hits me.” He glanced sideways at Blair. “I had a pet duck once, but I got mad at him and hit him and now he’s gone.”

“I know,” Blair said, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

“Maybe my parents would love me if Jimmy was gone,” Davey continued, his voice flat and expressionless. “Maybe I could make them think I was Jimmy, and then they’d love me like they love him.” He smiled at Blair, and there was an eerie sort of peace in his eyes.

Blair cleared his throat. “That’s not going to make things better, Davey,” he said. 

“It’s not?”

“No.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Do you know how to play any card games?”

Davey shook his head. “No. But I watch my dad play poker. Until he loses a lot of money. Then he starts chucking beer bottles at us.”

“So, what does your dad do when he has really bad cards?”

“He swears, and yells at the guy that’s dealing the cards, and then he puts his cards down and gets another beer.”

“Right. So, that’s called folding. It’s what you do in poker if you have a bad hand. You know things aren’t going to work out, so you give up, before you’ve put too much of your money in the pot.”

Davey thought about this for a while, picking at the frayed edges of a hole over his knee. “That doesn’t sound like a lot of fun,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. “Why do people play poker, then?”

“Because on the next deal, you get a new set of cards. And this time, they might be really good ones.”

“So it’s like you get another chance?”

“Uh-huh. Exactly.”

Davey looked directly at him, the green gaze disturbingly candid. “You think I should fold,” he said, his voice disturbingly adult for a moment.

Blair nodded. 

“I don’t know how to do that.”

And it was as if the last tumbler in the lock had fallen; the last piece of the puzzle had snapped into place. Blair could feel the doorway open, off to his right, just like it had with Tommy Calhoun. But there was something subtly different about it this time – there was some kind of guard, or barrier over the opening. Somehow, Blair realized, he’d learned how to make it a one-way portal. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said, confidently. He jabbed his thumb towards the doorway. “You see that opening?”

Davey turned his head.

“Go through there, and you get to start over. You get a new hand.”

Tears formed in the boy’s eyes, and his lower lip trembled. “But who will I be then?” he whispered.

Blair reached out and gripped his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said gently, “but I feel sure it’ll be someone better than you are now.”

Davey sighed and rose to his feet, nodding. Blair stood along with him. “Good luck,” he said, putting a hand on the boy’s head. He watched as the small figure walked steadily towards the doorway and through it without a backwards glance.

He was prepared for it this time, but even so the beauty of it swamped him, made shivers run up and down his spine. Such pure joy, like nothing he’d ever known on earth...

His head snapped up as he came back to his body with a gasp. Damn, was he ever going to get a chance to fully enjoy that experience? He unfolded his legs with some difficulty; they were stiff and nearly numb from being in one position so long. The movement made him suddenly aware of how sore he was. Pins and needles swarmed up his calves and thighs and he groaned, massaging his muscles firmly.

A moan came from off to his right, and he looked over to see Jim, sprawled prone on the floor. “Jim!” he shouted, stepping up his efforts to get his legs to work. “Jim, are you okay?”

Jim slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, shaking his head as if to clear it. He was staring at his hands as though he’d never seen them before. Raising his head, he met Blair’s gaze. “Blair?” he rasped. “What... how did you...”

Relief washed through him, clear and bright. He forced himself to stand, took a few shaky and halting steps towards his partner. Then, without warning, the room tilted, making his stomach lurch. “Jim?” he said weakly. “I don’t... I don’t feel so good.” He would have elaborated, but that was when the floor came up and hit him in the face.

***

Blair woke to the depressingly familiar sight of sterile white walls, beds cordoned off with curtains, and people running around in blue scrubs. He sighed. Great, his favorite place to be: a cubicle in Cascade General’s ER. And it looked like this was possibly the same cubicle he’d been in the last time he was here.

On the bright side, he was still dressed in the borrowed sweats, so it didn’t look like they were going to admit him. He had an IV stuck in his right arm, and it felt like his various scrapes had been dressed.

He turned his head and saw Jim sitting in a chair next to the bed, chin propped in his hand, staring at the floor. He wasn’t asleep; his eyes were open, but they were focused on something far away, as if he was deep in thought.

“Hey,” he tried to say, but his throat was as dry as sand and it came out as more of an incoherent croak.

Jim’s head snapped up. Quickly, he stood and busied himself pouring water from a plastic pitcher into a plastic cup, which he handed to Blair. “The doctor said you’d probably want something to drink when you woke up.”

He took the cup and drank deeply. The cool water felt soothing going down and he emptied the cup. “Thanks,” he said, “that hit the spot.” He put the empty cup on the table next to his bed. “You okay?” he asked, feeling a little apprehensive. There was something about Jim’s manner....

“Yeah, fine,” Jim replied curtly. He wouldn’t meet Blair’s gaze.

Apprehension grew into a tight knot in his stomach. “You sure? Maybe you should get checked out. I, uh... I got you pretty good, there....”

“I’m fine.” Still no eye contact.

He opened his mouth to quiz Jim further, but just then a young man wearing a white coat pushed aside the curtain separating Blair’s cubicle from the others in the room. “Hi, Detective Sandburg, I’m Dr. Marsh, one of the residents here,” he said cheerfully. “Your partner brought you in, said you’d passed out after getting into an altercation with a convenience store thief.”

Blair eyed Jim cautiously, but Jim still wasn’t looking at him. “Uh... yeah, I don’t know what happened. One minute I felt okay, then suddenly everything was spinning.”

“Well, we ran some tests, and it looks like you were dehydrated, in addition to being a little banged up. But nothing major; no concussion or anything. We’re giving you some IV fluids, plus a little ibuprofen,” Marsh pointed to the IV in Blair’s arm, “and once that’s done, you can leave. Go home and get some rest, because you’re going to be sore in the morning. In the future, however, I’d recommend....”

He tuned out the rest of what Marsh was saying – advice he’d heard a million times before and could pretty much recite from memory – to concentrate on Jim. Jim’s gaze was focused on the floor, his hands clasped behind his back. He wasn’t paying attention to Marsh’s spiel either, which was highly uncharacteristic of his normally overprotective partner.

Blair felt the knot in his stomach grow heavier. He knew Lash was gone; knew it completely and utterly, so he knew that Jim was himself again. But he’d hoped that maybe Jim didn’t remember anything from having been possessed, that maybe he’d just been... absent, or something. That was looking less and less likely, however.

“...okay?” Marsh asked. 

“Uh... yeah, okay,” Blair said quickly, pasting a smile on his face. 

“Okay,” Marsh replied, smiling. “I’ll get the nurses to get your discharge papers together.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Blair said, raising one hand in a half-hearted wave as Marsh moved on to the next cubicle. When he was sure Marsh was out of earshot, he turned to Jim. “Listen, Jim--” he started.

But before he could finish, the curtain was pushed aside again and Simon came in. “What’s the verdict, Sandburg?” he asked briskly.

He couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at Jim, who hadn’t moved a muscle. “Nothing major, Captain,” he replied, “just some bruises and not drinking enough water. No big deal.” He emphasized the last, hoping it would get through whatever bug Jim had up his ass.

“Glad to hear that, Detective,” Simon said. He gave Blair a penetrating look. “Now, you want to tell me what the hell this was all about?”

Crap. He hadn’t really had time to come up with a plausible cover story yet, at least not one that would satisfy Simon. _Come on, Sandburg, think!_. “Well, uh... I... we... I was feeling pretty crappy, so we went home....”

“Captain,” Jim broke in, pulling his handcuffs off his belt and handing them to Simon, “I want you to arrest me on charges of assault and attempted—”

“No!” Blair shouted, nearly coming off the bed in alarm. “Nonono, don’t listen to him, Simon, he doesn’t remember a thing, he was out cold.”

“I was _not_ ,” Jim gritted out through clenched teeth, “and I remember everything—”

“See, there was this guy, Simon,” Blair interrupted, panic jumpstarting his obfuscation muse, “and he broke in, and overpowered Jim, and beat me up. I got away and went to your place, but then I got worried that the guy would find me there, so I ran away, and then Jim found me and now it’s fine. And I’m okay. We’re okay.” He trailed off, looking hopefully at Simon.

Simon was looking at Jim. “Jim?” he asked, “is that what happened?”

“Hey,” Blair broke in with a forced chuckle, “who are you gonna believe? The person who was unconscious? Or the person who was actually there? I’m the victim; I’m the one who makes the statement, right? And that’s what happened.”

“I’m supposed to believe,” Simon said, raising one eyebrow, “that you left your partner, incapacitated, alone with someone who was bent on doing you harm?”

“Well, you know, Jim’s an ex-Ranger; I knew he could take care of himself,” he replied lamely.

“You get a description of the guy?” Simon asked.

“Uh... no. I... I didn’t really get a good look at him.” He chewed nervously on his lower lip.

“Despite the fact that he was beating the crap out of you.” Simon sighed. “So, I’m just supposed to put out an APB on “a guy”?”

“There’s no need to put out an APB, Captain,” he said carefully. “He... he won’t be bothering us again – or anyone else.”

Simon sighed again and massaged the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. “Do I want to know what really happened, Sandburg?” he asked wearily.

“No,” he said definitively. “No, Simon, you really don’t.”

“Okay. You two,” Simon pointed at them, “get some rest. I don’t want to see you at the PD tomorrow before noon.” He turned to leave, then stopped and handed Jim’s cuffs back to him. “Here, Detective, you might need these at some point.” Then he swept out, his long raincoat flapping behind him, muttering under his breath about “damn Sentinel crap”.

Blair blew out his breath in a long sigh. One crisis averted, now to take care of the next one. But before he could say anything to Jim, the nurse came in to take out his IV, and then another one came in with his discharge papers, and then the first nurse came back with the wheelchair, and so he didn’t have a private moment alone with Jim until they were both in the truck. 

“Jim, man, what the _hell_? Telling Simon to arrest you? Are you fucking _insane_?” he blurted out. He knew he should have taken a moment and found a more tactful way to start things, but Jim’s grim silence and lack of eye contact was wearing on his nerves.

“A crime’s been committed, Sandburg,” Jim said, his voice flat and cool.

“Not by you,” he returned. 

Jim didn’t reply, just jammed the truck into first gear and plunged into traffic.

“Besides, what is the point of going to jail? I’m not going to press charges.”

A muscle twitched in Jim’s jaw. “The DA can press charges independently if there’s enough evidence.”

“There’s no evidence!” he shouted, exasperated.

“I’m sure Forensics will find something. My fingerprints are all over the loft.”

“But _it wasn’t you_!” 

Silence. Jim’s mouth was set in a mulish line, his jaw clenched. His eyes were hooded.

“Shit, Jim, _come on_!” 

When no response was forthcoming, Blair slammed his fist against the passenger side door and cursed softly under his breath. “Don’t think that just because you’re giving me the silent treatment now that we’re not talking about this when we get home,” he warned. 

But when they got to the loft, Jim stalked directly upstairs to their bedroom. Blair heard something hit the bed, then the sound of drawers being opened and closed. He groaned to himself. All he really wanted to do was take a hot shower, wash all this mud off of him, and go to bed. But first he had to make Jim see reason.

He made his way up the stairs slowly, favoring his sore ankle. When he reached the top step, he could see Jim pulling underwear – his underwear – out of the dresser and tossing it into a black duffle on the bed. 

Irritation flashed through him. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m going to a hotel,” Jim said, still in that flat, cool voice. “Call me when you get up tomorrow and I’ll take you over to Simon’s to get your car.”

“So, what, that’s it? You’re just leaving? We’re not going to talk about this?”

Jim shoved a fistful of socks in the duffle, his expression grim. 

He sighed and hobbled over, grabbing Jim’s arm. “Goddammit, Jim, I thought we were over—”

Jerking his arm out of Blair’s grasp, Jim turned on him, his eyes blazing. “How in the _hell_ can you stand to be here?” he exploded. “How can you even stand to be in the same room with me, after what I did to you?”

Blair stood his ground. This was familiar territory, after all. “That wasn’t you,” he said calmly.

Hands clenched into fists, Jim loomed over him. “I tormented you, I beat you, I nearly _raped_ you, and I couldn’t do a _goddammed_ thing about it!” he roared. “What if it happens again? What if he comes back? What if you can’t stop me this time?”

Blair put his hands out, trying to keep his voice as low and reassuring as possible. “It wasn’t _you_ ,” he reiterated. “And he’s not coming back. He’s gone, for good this time. Trust me.”

The savage fury drained from Jim’s face and he sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. “Christ, Blair,” he whispered, his voice shaking, “he was going to _kill_ you. What if he’d... I don’t know how... I couldn’t have lived with myself if....”

“It’s okay.” His irritation vanished and he moved forward, pulling Jim into a tight embrace. “ _I’m_ okay. It’s all over.”

Jim’s arms went around him, his fists clenched in the baggy sweatshirt. He pressed against Blair, shuddering, his breathing short and harsh. “I can’t stop seeing it,” he gasped. “My fist, hitting your face, again and again, and I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t do anything about it....”

“Ssh, it’s okay,” he murmured, running his fingers through Jim’s short, soft brown hair. “It’s all over. Let it out, it’s okay, it’s all over.” 

He held Jim, comforting him, soothing him, murmuring reassurance over and over, and eventually the shuddering stopped and Jim’s breathing eased. “Hey, you know what?” he said, once it was clear Jim had regained control, “I could really use a shower. But I’m a little worried to be in there myself, with this ankle. Think you could help me?”

Jim nodded, letting Blair go and pulling away. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Just let me put this stuff away, and I’ll join you.”

“Okay.” With a final squeeze of Jim’s shoulder, he headed downstairs.

As he stripped off his muddy clothes and waited for the water to get hot, he mused on how it was he felt so calm about the day’s events. He certainly hadn’t earlier. Maybe he was just too tired right now; maybe it would hit him tomorrow, or the day after; a delayed panic reaction, or something.

But somehow he didn’t think so. He felt a centeredness now, a balance, that had been lacking before. A sense that he could see the bigger picture. It didn’t make what Lash had done, now or then, right, but somehow he found that there was more room in his heart for compassion, for understanding. For love.

He smiled to himself. Wasn’t that what the whole lesson had been about, anyway?

Sliding into the shower, he grabbed the washcloth and lathered up, eager to finally scrub the muck from his skin. He heard the door to the bathroom creak open, then shut. There was a pause, then the curtain rattled and he felt Jim slip in behind him. Jim’s hands covered his, and Jim’s voice was warm and soft in his ear. “Let me?” he asked.

“Okay,” he sighed, relinquishing the cloth and soap. Jim washed him thoroughly, head to toe, his fingers ghosting gently over Blair’s skin, in what Blair suspected was more than just an effort to help him get clean. But that was fine. It felt good to just sit back and let himself be taken care of, and if it helped Jim abolish some of today’s memories, so much the better. 

Jim leaned against the back wall of the shower and tugged Blair to lie against him. Blair heard the _snick_ of his shampoo cap, then Jim’s hands were in his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. He groaned in pure pleasure and rested his forehead against Jim’s shoulder. The hot spray pounded against his sore muscles, turning him into a puddle of goo.

At any other moment, this would have been incredibly erotic, and definitely have led to other things, but Blair was just too exhausted to muster any meaningful physical reaction right now. “Sorry,” he mumbled against Jim’s skin, “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but inside, I promise, I’ve got a raging hard-on.”

His heart warmed to hear Jim’s chuckle. “S’okay,” Jim replied, “I’m not gonna be in the mood myself for a day or two.”

“I’m really sorry about that,” he said, lifting his head to meet Jim’s gaze. “You should have had the doctor check you out, too.”

“Relax, Sandburg, I’m fine. Believe it or not, I’ve been kicked in the balls before.”

He snickered, he couldn’t help it, and Jim rolled his eyes, putting his hand on his chest in a gesture of mock affliction. “Ow, Chief, that really hurts.” Then his expression sobered. His hand came up to cup Blair’s cheek, his thumb tracing lightly over the bruise there. “I’m just glad you had the presence of mind to react the way you did.” Blair closed his eyes, leaning into Jim’s touch, then tilted his head and their mouths met.

They stood there until the water turned cold and there were goosebumps rising on Blair’s skin. Jim shut off the water, then bundled them both up in a couple of towels, and they made their way upstairs to bed.

But the events of the day refused to let Blair go entirely. He kept running through things over and over in his head, always coming to the same conclusion. With a sigh, he steeled himself. “Jim?” he murmured.

“Yeah?” The clear, quiet response told Blair that Jim hadn’t been sleeping, either.

“I have to get some training. I have to know how to deal with these things. I can’t keep going along on luck and prayers. At some point it won’t be enough.”

Jim was silent for a while. “Okay,” he said, finally. 

Blair raised his head. He could just make out Jim’s face in the dimness, see the shine of his eyes as Jim looked at him. “It could take a while. I might have to go away.”

Jim nodded.

“Maybe as far as Peru.”

“Whatever you need.”

He took a deep breath. “You need to come, too. At least for a little while.” Jim turned his head away, and Blair hurried to continue. “I know you hate this stuff. I know it. But you need to at least learn some basic things, self-defense maneuvers, if you like.” 

Jim didn’t respond, and Blair felt his heart sink a little.

“I’m not trying to say this was your fault; it wasn’t. It was totally mine – I opened the door, I let Lash through, I didn’t know enough to protect you... hell, I didn’t even know enough to figure out you’d been possessed until it was too late—”

Jim’s head snapped back and he laid his fingers lightly on Blair’s lips, hushing him. “This was _not_ your fault, Blair,” he said firmly. “You’re the only reason I’m alive. And you’re right, I need some kind of training.”

He smiled. “I’m right?”

“You always are, Chief.” 

Chuckling, he lay back down, burrowing closer to Jim’s warmth. “Yeah, well... don’t you forget it.”

“Not likely.” Jim’s fingers combed slowly through his hair. “You figure out what to do and we’ll do it. I trust you.”

“I love you, too, Jim,” he yawned, and fell asleep to Jim’s soothing caress. 

The End


End file.
